


Vertigo

by Icicle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Death Eaters, Drunk Sex, Drunken Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Good Severus Snape, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Malfoy Manor, Non-Graphic Violence, Oral Sex, POV First Person, Past Abuse, Regret, Romance, Second War with Voldemort, Severus Snape-centric, Shame, Slow Burn, Smut, Snape takes care of Draco, Teacher-Student Relationship, Wartime, post hbp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:42:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icicle/pseuds/Icicle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snape takes care of Draco after Voldemort tortures him and starts to see him in a different light. Wartime AU. Post HBP. Written for the Snape/Draco fest on livejournal. </p><p>  <i>"I thought that I would never feel again, not after losing her. But something about him, about this insane yet beautiful boy, has awakened feelings deep within me that I thought were long dead."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> For this fic, pretend that Snape didn't die by Nagini's bite. Actually, pretend that most of DH didn't happen, except for Severus really working for Dumbledore the entire time. This story is mostly compliant through HBP and written for the Snape/Draco fest on livejournal. 
> 
> A special thank you to my lovely betas **Evening12** and **Ashiiblack** , who helped me even though they don't ship Snaco.

 

 

 

 _"Children spin in circles until they collapse with dizziness. Vertigo takes them over. Adults foolishly believe they're immune."  -_ Thomas Ligotti

 

 

**. 1 .**

  
  
The Malfoys have always been beautiful—with their pale blond hair, aristocratic features, and elegant posture. That cannot be denied. Narcissa was always the talk of the school. All the boys wanted her and Lucius was no different. Even Lucius had his fair share of admirers. Of both sexes. Although I will refrain from calling him beautiful, his sharp elegance and stark confidence has always captivated those around him, including myself. I don’t like to admit to weaknesses. They are few and numbered; however, when it comes to beauty, it has always been my downfall.  
  
While I may have appreciated Narcissa’s beauty, the only woman I have ever loved is Lily Evans. I know this sounds prosaic and overly sentimental, especially for a Slytherin, but I fell in love with Lily the first time I met her. I saw her from a distance, her fiery red hair reflecting the sunlight in stunning waves of amber, orange, and gold. It made my breath catch and my chest ache, my head incredibly dizzy. I was only a child and did not understand the complexity of what I was feeling. But what I did know—was that more than anything—I needed to find a way to know that little girl. It wasn’t easy, but eventually, I befriended her, no thanks to that horrid sister of hers.  
  
Lily was even more beautiful once I got to know her. She had this dazzling smile that warmed an entire room when she entered. And it wasn’t just her beauty either. Lily was intelligent. One of the smartest witches I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. We spent many hours working together, researching. I still believe that between the two of us we could have changed the world. That didn’t happen.  
  
Everyone knows what happened instead. I lost her. She was cruelly stolen from me, not once but twice, by that arrogant son of a bitch James Potter, who couldn’t even keep her safe. _Alive._  I’ll never understand why certain events played out the way they did, but lingering in the past only leaves me with empty bottles of firewhiskey and too many sleepless nights. Lily Evans broke my heart on more than one occasion, and I promised myself that I would never succumb to the foolishness of the heart again. Until now.  
  
Years have passed since Lily’s demise, and as much as I tell Albus that I’m not still punishing myself for her death, I am. For the last five years, I have remained celibate. So many years were spent drowning in the sorrows of regret, self-medicating through various potions and self-isolation that I never even miss it. Besides, it’s not as if any opportunities come up teaching these gormless brats year after year. Even my Slytherins never have anyone worthwhile.  
  
Over the years, more than a few of my female students have been willing to engage in a bit of extra credit, but my cock has no desire to indulge in such wanton behaviour with mindless tarts. And, of course, there’s Albus. He is the only person in the entire wizarding world, who trusts me completely and has given me a second chance.  
  
I cannot let him down. Perhaps I sound like a foolish Hufflepuff, but I owe Albus  _everything_ , much more than I can ever repay. The only thing he asks of me is not to fornicate with his students and follow the rules of his school. At this point, I don’t even know if my cock works, and I’m not in a hurry to find out.

At least I wasn’t until  _him._

 _  
_ **TBC...**


	2. Slughorn's Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is complete and has 13 parts. The reason for the shorter chapters than my usual writing style is because this fic shows 13 glimpses into Snape's life between HBP and the fall of Voldemort. I'll post 1 chapter a day until complete. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!

 

**. 2 .**

  
  
The first time it happens is after Slughorn’s party. I’ve been keeping an eye on the brat all year. I know he’s up to something, but I can’t prove exactly what it is. He’s supposed to trust me, to let me help with his mission, but for reasons that I can’t even begin to understand, he avoids me.  
  
That night, I finally corner him, dragging him out of Slughorn’s party like a pampered child and pull him into a secluded hallway.  
  
“Just what do you think you’re doing, Mr Malfoy?”  
  
“What’s it to  _you_?”  
  
I take in a sharp breath, not quite believing Draco’s sheer nerve. Yes, he’s been dodging me all term, ignoring all my requests to come to my office, but he’s never spoken to me with such disrespect. None of my Slytherins have. “You’re disrupting  _my_  school,” I say in a low but dangerous voice. “And losing house points. That’s why it matters to me.”  
  
“I don’t care. You’re not the boss of me. I was chosen for this.”  
  
My hand sneaks into the right deep pocket of my robe and grips my wand tightly, almost strangling it. I’m  _this_  close to hexing the arrogant little cockroach into the bottom of the wall when I notice his shoulders starting to shake and his bottom lip quivering.  
  
I stare into those deep-set grey eyes of his; they are exactly the same colour as Lucius’ but the expression and shape is all Narcissa. They remind me of Narcissa’s frantic pleas to save her only son and the Unbreakable Vow I made. Most people think I’m heartless and perhaps compassion is not my strongest suit — but tears — real heart-wrenching tears, not the insufferable crocodile tears students try to use to get out of detention, disarm me.  
  
The haunted look that Draco gives me is much too similar to his mother, much too similar to another pained set of eyes that I’m not supposed to think about. Even if his words are forced bravado, his eyes are so hopeless, desperate, that for once, I decide to let his insults slide.  
  
“Listen to me, Draco, let me help you. I swore to your mother I would protect you. I made the Unbreakable Vow.”[1]  
  
I reach out my hand towards him, not entirely sure what I’m planning. I’ve never been good at comforting people. It’s not one of my many talents. I part my lips and meet his eyes, this frightened boy in front of me. Part of me wants to curse him, but another part, a rather small part, wants to remove that pain from his face. How utterly disgusting.  
  
“I-I can’t,” Draco stammers, his bravado quickly fading. For the first time, I notice the dark, deep shadows underneath his eyes, the hollowness of his cheekbones. Clearly, the brat has not been taking proper care of himself. Yes, he’s under a lot of pressure, but that doesn’t mean that he should let himself fall to pieces.  
  
“You  _can_. I can help.”  
  
Again, I reach out and try to comfort him. This time I manage to place a hand on his shoulder. He flinches underneath my touch, from the roughness of my hands, but doesn’t pull away. He looks up at me with wide expectant eyes, his usually polished hair, sticking up at all angles and opens his mouth; his lips are chapped and swollen, dried blood visible in the corner.  
  
“Stop.” I hold up a hand and silence him. “Don’t say another word. It’s not safe.” I hear a shuffling noise behind me, muffled breathing in the distance. I have a feeling I know exactly what it is—that insufferable Potter boy and his blasted cloak. I still can’t believe Albus lets him get away with sneaking around the castle at all hours. “We’re being watched.”  
  
Without waiting for a response, I grab Draco’s arm and drag him into a nearby classroom. Before offering any explanation, I place several complicated locking spells on the door and cast a strong Muffliato Charm. _There_. Let Potter try to disarm those. Anyone that tries to tamper with my locking spells will receive a rather unpleasant surprise. A genuine smile sneaks its way onto my lips and I have to swallow it down.  
  
“Speak.” I lean against a nearby window, rest my head against it, and then cross my arms in front of my chest.  
  
“I-I-”  
  
“I don’t have all day, Mr Malfoy,” I drawl. “Although you might think otherwise, I do have other students and other duties to this school besides saving your sorry arse.”  
  
Draco closes his eyes for a moment and bites down on his lip. When he opens them again, that haunted look returns. It’s deeper than before, but there’s something else in his eyes as well, an emotion I haven’t seen in ages. It looks almost like lust, but that can’t be possible. What would a young boy like him want with an old man like me?  
  
“Draco,” I try again, “why have you been avoiding me? It’s not like you. You’ve always been a dedicated student.”  
  
“I-I-” Draco opens his mouth. He steps closer and I’m able to see just how raw those lips of his are. The boy needs to find a new nervous habit if he doesn’t want to end up without any skin. His eyes are bright again, glowing in the faint torchlight that I lit upon entering, two silvery determined orbs, which unnerve me more than I will ever admit.  
  
He closes his mouth and then walks right up to me, removing all distance between us. His proximity alarms me. I’m not comfortable with others invading my personal space, especially having a student barely an inch away from me. He stands on his toes; even though he has hit a growth spurt since last year, he’s still a good deal shorter than my tall, lanky frame. Before I can protest, he presses his lips against mine, tentatively kissing me.  
  
It has been ages since I last kissed anyone. I cannot remember the last time I felt another’s lips against mine, let alone a boy this young and beautiful. The kiss is quick and cautious, but it doesn’t matter. Somehow, those chapped lips manage to be soft, and for the first time in years, I feel a flicker of emotion stirring in my gut: desire.  
  
I don’t respond to the kiss; I’m frozen against the wall, mesmerised by the moment, Draco’s clean scent. By the time I open my eyes, he’s gone, and for the first time in two years, I have an erection.

 

**TBC...**

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

[1] Quote from HBP ch.15 p. 323 by JK Rowling. 


	3. The Kiss

**. 3 .**

  
  
The second time it happens is in my dreams. That first shy kiss replays in my mind repeatedly. I don’t know how many nights I lie in bed, thinking about why Draco might have kissed me, or how I actually enjoyed it. He’s just a boy, a rather attractive boy, but an under-aged student nonetheless. Shame overwhelms me, fills my gut, and almost causes me to regurgitate my dinner. It’s unbearable.  
  
There are so many other things to worry about; Albus is getting weaker by the day, and I’m no closer to finding a cure. The Dark Lord will be expecting a report on my progress at Hogwarts and any news I may have uncovered from the Order. I have nothing substantial to report. He will be far from pleased. Yet, all I can think about is that blasted boy, those chapped lips, and how amazing they’d feel around my cock.  
  
What kind of sick pervert am I?  
  
Before that stupid kiss, I haven’t had a hard on in months, years even, and now I find myself wanking to images of my former favourite student every night, watching him kneel down on both knees and suck my cock dry. Even my dreams are no longer safe. They are plagued with inappropriate fantasies of Draco showing up in my office late at night, wearing nothing but an open school robe, that pale hair pulled back from his face—or worse yet, Albus and the entire school finding out exactly how much of a repulsive, sadistic bastard I am. Many nights, I wake up in a cold sweat and have to resort to taking a dose of Dreamless Sleep to get any rest at all.  
  
The brat is slowly driving me mad. I always knew my students would one day force me into the realm of insanity. I just didn’t know it would be this soon, and I always assumed it would be a Gryffindor, not one of my own Slytherins. Even the other members of my own house are getting on my nerves. They used to respect me, respect the common area, but lately the entire house is out of control. 

Every time I enter the common room, instead of receiving me with the quiet reverence I deserve, they ignore me unless I speak, and continue with their abhorrent gossip as if I’m not even there. The only student who exits hastily every time I enter is Draco. Clearly, Narcissa and Lucius have failed to teach him any manners.  
  
It appears that I’m not the only one who has noticed how much young Draco has matured this year. As much as I try to avoid it, I’ve heard the gossip. I know that Draco can have any girl in Slytherin he desires and perhaps some of the Ravenclaws too. As for the boys, well, Zabini is always eyeing him more than a little appreciatively when he thinks that no one else is watching. And Zabini may not be my type, but I assume Draco finds him far more attractive than his greasy haired professor. When I start to feel irrationally and inappropriately jealous of other teenage boys, I know that my descent into madness is undeniable.  
  
We’ve never discussed that night again. Draco continues to keep his distance; he started handing in all his assignments on time or earlier and avoids me outside of the classroom. He sits in the back of the room, partners with Parkinson, and keeps his head down. There are so many times I’ve wanted to stop him, force him to speak with me. But what would I say? Why did you kiss me? Was it joke? It sounds so juvenile and petty.  
  
Even if it was a joke or a defence mechanism, how can I punish him? I certainly won’t bring up the incident to Albus or Minerva. Clearly, Draco realises he has me trapped, which is probably why the brat did it in the first place. I’m on my own. I have to brush it off as one of those inexplicable incidents that meant nothing. He may have the weight of his parents’ lives on his shoulders, but he is still a teenage boy; a teenage boy filled with hormones.  
  
Teenage boys will fuck anything and everything. A simple kiss to his old, stingy professor is meaningless. It hasn’t affected him in the least. He’s probably never thought of it again. For Salazar’s sake, he’s a boy, not a perverted old codger who gets a hard on from the idea of his underage student snogging him.  
  
Holy hell, I’m a monster, a monster who has far more important concerns to attend to.

 

**TBC...**


	4. Narcissa's Request

**. 4 .**

  
  
Narcissa pleads with me again. “I... _please_ —” Her voice is strained, broken. “He’s just a boy. The old man is dead. You can’t let that... that monster kill him.” Tears fall down her cheeks, marring her pretty face. Her words are almost indecipherable behind her sobs. “He’s my son, my  _only_  son.”  
  
I don’t know what to say to her. I’m shocked. How could this woman be so foolish? We’re located in the Dark Lord’s headquarters. Yes, it’s also Malfoy Manor, but no one pretends it’s under Malfoy control any longer. Does she want to get herself killed as well as her idiotic son?  
  
“Hold your tongue woman,” I snap, my hand reaching out and grabbing her shoulder. “ _Never_  dishonour the Dark Lord in front of me.”  
  
Narcissa gasps and breathes out a small yelp. Her heavy lidded eyes grow wide, as if she finally understands her mistake. Narcissa is usually a very composed woman. It’s bizarre seeing her so destroyed.  
  
“You’re right,” she says. “I’m sorry. It’s just... is he?”  
  
I exhale loudly and bite down on my bottom lip, straining my lips into a hard line. This is not what I had in mind. I have already fulfilled my promise to Narcissa. The Unbreakable Vow is complete. I killed Dumbledore in Draco’s place. Any further obligation is unnecessary. I’m about to tell her so when that same _broken_ look crosses her eyes.  
  
Those pale blue eyes shine so earnestly and fiercely. She looks remarkably like Draco in that minute. I picture the scared boy, who was crying in that empty classroom, the scared boy who I found almost dead in the bathroom. The thought of letting down Narcissa, of losing Draco after spending so much time keeping him alive, is unimaginable.  
  
“Alright,” I say, reluctance obvious in my voice, “I’ll see what I can do.” 

Going against the Dark Lord’s orders is suicide, something only a misguided, idiotic Gryffindor would do. But there’s something about beautiful women crying — those pained eyes of hers that are so much like Draco’s — that unhinges me.

I cannot bring myself to say no.

 

**TBC...**


	5. Draco

**. 5 .**

  
  
A warm breeze fills the room. Sunlight strews through the pale silver curtains, reflecting off the white blond head that lies motionless on the bed. His skin is pale, almost as white as the satin sheets he rests on. It seems ridiculous that I notice such trivialities such as the colour of his skin — the length of his eyelashes — yet I cannot make myself look away.  
  
Two purple bruises mar the delicate skin underneath his eyes, a large angry scar running down his neck. His cheeks are even hollower than when I saw him last, sharp bones almost piercing underneath his thin skin. Yet, there’s an almost translucent quality about that pale skin, about that golden hair. I yearn to reach out and run my fingers through his hair, to trace that hideous scar on his neck that tarnishes his perfect flesh. Jesus sodding Christ, snap out of it!  
  
I sit by my bed, in a nearby leather armchair, where I’ve been sitting all night. I don’t remember falling asleep, so sleep must have come at some point in the early morning. A crick in my neck annoys me but is not unexpected. What is unexpected, however, is the sour bile churning in my stomach. Why do I feel like this? It hardly makes sense. I’m _not_ doing this for him. He’s just a boy, another student, a rather annoying and spoiled student. That’s all. I do not have feelings, sexual or otherwise, for one of my students.  
  
I scowl and run a hand through my hair, pushing it out of my face. I inch my chair closer to the bed and lean over to examine my patient. A quick Diagnostic Spell tells me that his vitals are still weak but much stronger than the previous night. There had been so much blood, such heavy nerve damage. I wasn’t sure that I could save him—that I would be able to keep my promise to Narcissa.  
  
After fleeing Hogwarts, I was so consumed with guilt for killing Albus that I didn’t think about Draco. I just told him to follow and without saying a word, he did. He followed my every step, keeping his head down and trying to keep his distance from Greyback. I could tell that Greyback was sending him devious looks, eyeing him and considering making the boy his next plaything. Until then, Draco was under Voldemort’s protection. He was not to be touched or harmed in any way until he completed his task. If he failed, then Voldemort would decide what to do to him. I knew that he would be punished for his failures.  
  
Foolishly, I assumed that since the task was accomplished the Dark Lord would be more lenient. Leniency does not exist in the Dark Lord’s vocabulary. I offered Voldemort the good news and after receiving my adequate prize and dining at the Dark Lord’s right hand side, I dismissed myself, not even casting a second glance towards Draco. I figured he would be safe until morning. Oh, how wrong I was.  
  
Not only did Voldemort hold him under repeated Cruciatus, he was given to Greyback as a toy for the evening. When I walked into Greyback’s quarters in the middle of the night, I found Draco passed out in a pool of his own vomit, saliva, and blood with Greyback leant over him naked, a predatory look in his fiendish eyes.

Without even offering an explanation, I stunned Greyback and removed Draco from his care, scooping him up in my arms and taking him straight to my Potions laboratory. Thank Merlin I arrived when I did. I can’t imagine the horrors Greyback would have inflicted on him, if I were only a few moments later.  
  
Greyback does not have the bollocks to complain to the Dark Lord, not when I’ve just been made Voldemort’s new right hand man. If I have to deal with the Dark Lord’s wrath, I will take my chances and punishment in stride. Even if I don’t particularly care for the Malfoy boy, I cannot have another death on my conscious, not right after Albus.  
  
Deep down, I know it’s a lie. In my own way, I’ve always cared about Draco.  


 

*** * ***

  
  
A soft cough pulls me from my thoughts.  
  
I snap my head up and realise that I’m hovering. An ungainly warmth creeps across my cheeks, but I know nothing will come of it. My sallow colouring is ideal for hiding unnecessary emotions like blushing. How absurd.  
  
“Sev-er-” Draco’s voice is hoarse. He breaks into a coughing fit and cannot stop himself long enough to finish speaking.  
  
“Don’t try to speak,” I say, my voice firm. “Your vocal chords are raw.”  
  
Draco sits up and continues to cough. He nods. His pale hair is ruffled and face creased with sleep lines, eyes bloodshot.  
  
“How are you feeling?”  
  
I bite down on my lip, realising that I have asked the boy not to speak. I can’t explain why, but something has disconcerted me about seeing Draco like this, staring up at me with wide troubled eyes. It’s been so long since we last spoke, spent time alone together. Until Slughorn’s party, Draco used to help me brew potions for the infirmary every Saturday. Now, he avoids me as if I had an infectious disease.  
  
Draco opens his mouth again and I shake my head. “Let me get you some water.”  
  
I charm the nearby pitcher to pour a glass of water and then Summon it to Draco. This spell is quite advanced, but over the years I’ve mastered it. When one leads a life as solitary as my own, the only place I find solace is in research and spell work.  
  
Draco takes a long gulp, emptying almost half the glass and then rolls his eyes. “Show off,” he croaks, his voice still hoarse but less so.  
  
A smirk plays on my lips. I can’t pretend that seeing him wear that Malfoy mask of bravado again doesn’t please me. He almost died the night before, the second time in a month. Frankly, I don’t even know how he’s alive, how I’ve managed to save him after losing so much blood on both occasions. Perhaps it’s his youth or the strength and tenacity in the Malfoy and Black bloodlines. Either way, I’m thankful that he appears to be out of any immediate danger. At least I’ll have a positive report for Narcissa.  
  
“You should eat something,” I say, breaking the silence. “I’ll go summon one of the elves and alert your mother that you’re awake.”  
  
I stand from the chair and begin walking out of the room. I can no longer take that look he’s giving me: devious, affectionate, and grateful all at once. It’s too much to digest.   
  
“I, wait!” A cold hand grabs the back of my robes and attempts to pull me closer.  
  
Reluctantly, I turn around, a familiar bout of shame stirring in my gut. I open my mouth to protest, but as soon as I take in those earnest grey eyes — shining almost silver in the refracted sunlight and those full chapped lips that had once met my own — I’m speechless. This is insane, absurd. He’s only a boy and I a grown man, but there’s something about him that’s affecting me.  
  
“Thank you,” he says, his voice soft and hushed.  
  
I shake my robe away from Draco’s grip and raise an eyebrow, trying to keep my face as closed off and inscrutable as possible. “There’s no need.”  
  
And with an overbearing swish of my robes, I’m gone.  
  
I know it’s a cheap trick to Apparate out of the boy’s room when I only needed to take a few steps to the door, but I don’t think I could have managed another second in that room. My heart hammers against my chest and my lungs struggle for air. I need to distance myself immediately, from my under-aged student, whom I’m undeniably starting to desire.

 

**TBC...**


	6. The Dark Lord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for not posting for so long! I promise this story has not been abandoned and will be updated often. It's my New Year's resolution to get back to finishing my fics and posting new ones. 
> 
> Happy Holidays and thank you so much for reading!

 

 

 

 

**. 6 .**

 

Days pass on and I do my best to avoid the boy. Narcissa has taken over Draco’s healing and potions regime and supposedly his health is coming along well. There’s no lasting damage from Voldemort’s curses or Greyback’s attack, not even scarring, apart from the one on his neck. I’m not ready to face him, but relief pours through me at hearing of his recovery. He’s far too young and attractive a boy to find himself disfigured with scars at such a young age. He already has those terrible scars from Potter—he doesn’t need any more.

June fifth came and passed and I could not have been more grateful. Even though I’ll still attempt to keep my distance, at least from this moment on, Draco’s of age. While I won’t go out of my way to touch him, at least now it won’t be as inappropriate to lust after Draco in secret. Lusting after my adult former student is infinitely better than lusting after my under-aged former student.

Clearly, I spoke too soon. Not even three nights later, I find myself in a position that I swore never to be in again, begging that monster for a favour.

“Severus,” the Dark Lord hisses, “you know that I am quite happy with you at the moment.”

I bow my head and press my lips together. This hissing thing is getting quite old, but I cannot let him sense my annoyance. The Dark Lord might be losing his grip on his reality, but he’s not that far gone yet. He’s still unbelievably perceptive, especially when it comes to fear. It’s as if he can feel fear in a room; he feeds off it, basks in it, almost as if he were a Dementor.

“Yes, my Lord,” I respond, my head still hanging. “It is my honour and duty to serve you.”

The Dark Lord places a cold, scaly hand underneath my chin; his sharp claws knife at my neck. “Look at me.” It’s not a request.

Trying not to flinch underneath his touch – those clammy hands and brittle nails repulse me – I lift my head and lock eyes with the demon before me. I call him a demon because there’s not a single ounce of humanity left in him. There’s not a doubt in my mind that the very depths of hell would refuse him.

“My Lord,” I repeat, putting on the same blank mask I always wear when addressing him.

“Yes, Severus, you have proven your loyalty yet again.” Voldemort removes his hand from underneath my chin. Those red eyes of his are glowing. I try my best not to let it throw me. “You are my most trusted advisor, Severus. You have succeeded where so many others have failed.”

He pauses for a moment, those infernal red eyes staring at me, dissecting me. He’s trying to break into my thoughts. A familiar tug pulls against the shields of my mind. The Dark Lord tries to violate my mind several times a week. When he’s feeling extra violent, which lately has been often, it’s more.

For years, I have been keeping my thoughts and emotions behind a wall, a fortress of my own making. During school, I was never been good at controlling my emotions. I let Potter and his goons get to me much too often, but that was then. I am no longer a scared child who hides from his father and taunters to avoid being punished.

“Why do you think that is?”

The Dark Lord is challenging me. He wants me to back down, to prove his superiority. For someone who’s supposedly all powerful, he’s damn insecure. I weigh my answer carefully. If I want to win this battle, my response needs to be precise.

“I want to please, _My Lord_.”

Over the years, I’m not sure how many ‘my lords’ have rolled off my tongue. I’ve lost count. He might be an evil Dark Lord, but he still adores the sound of his name, the fear and respect it commands. I just enjoy buying myself some time to think.

“Perhaps the others,” I pause and choose my words cautiously, “ _don’t_ take your cause as seriously as I do.” I give the Dark Lord a playful smirk and hope that he finds my comment amusing rather than patronizing.

His own thin lips ( if you can even call them that) curve in a half-smirk, the closest he ever gets to a smile.

“Perhaps you might be correct, old friend. You always were the brightest of the lot.” He lets out a sigh. “I don’t know why I ever put my faith in Lucius and the Malfoys.”

I nod but don’t respond. The Dark Lord’s an interesting character. While he’s allowed to insult, provoke, and degrade his followers, no one else is allowed to insult another Death Eater without his permission.

After a moment, I say, “I am unworthy of such high praise.”

“Perhaps, but I am not an unreasonable man.” His eyes light up like two red flames. “You have done me a great honour by killing Dumbledore. I would like to offer you a reward.” 

I bow my head again. There’s one thing I want; one thing I desperately crave, but I cannot bring myself to ask.

“You owe me nothing, My Lord. Your pleasure is reward enough.”

Voldemort tilts his head back and laughs, a grating sound that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. “While I appreciate the flattery, do _not_ lie to me.” He raises a hand in front of me, those yellow nails dangerously close to my face, and waves it around. “I know you, Severus. You do not fool me.”

He steps closer, his face inches away from mine, and breathes in. I’m not sure exactly what he’s doing, but it’s almost as if he were trying to breathe in my soul, my essence. This time I can’t hide my shudder and am once again reminded of Dementors. “I-I was not—”

“Stop talking.” He takes another deep whiff, and I feel like I’m paralysed to the spot. “You can’t hide from me, Severus. You might be more clever than my other followers, but you cannot outsmart me. I am Lord Voldemort. I know what you desire...how you desire the Malfoy boy.”

“I-I-”

Remember what I said about never blushing—well, apparently that’s conditional. My entire face grows hot. In the past, the barriers of my mind have never let me down. Either the Dark Lord has grown more powerful in the last few days, which is unlikely, or the only other possible explanation is that my defences are weakening, crumbling under the Dark Lord’s assault.

I take a deep breath. Remaining calm and in control is essential not only for own my life but also to make sure not to take down anyone else. After Albus, I promised myself that I would no longer hold anyone else’s life besides my own in the balance; that no other lives would depend on me.

Clearly, that hasn’t lasted long since I now have Narcissa’s and that insufferable Malfoy boy’s life entwined to mine. My life does not mean as much as it should to me. I may be a Slytherin, but that doesn’t mean I fear death. After so much misfortune and a lifetime of regret, death seems rather peaceful. Lying is ingrained in a Slytherins’ mentality, perhaps even in their blood, but now’s not a time to lie.

“Yes, My Lord. Your suspicions are indeed correct.”

Finally, Voldemort steps away from me and breaks the almost unbearable closeness.

“Do not be embarrassed, Severus. The boy is quite beautiful. You have good taste.”

“I-I-”

“Yes, he is quite desirable, Severus. But a little young for my taste.” He says the word young as if it were a foul, distrustful word, like he would say Mudblood.

“He’s yours,” the Dark Lord says, after several moments.

“What?” My voice is high-pitched and forced. I have never heard my voice at the unbearable octave before, not since I passed through puberty, but the Dark Lord has surprised me. Usually, as soon as he realises you fancy something he will find a way to take it from you, to make it his own.

“The boy, Severus. He’s yours. I gift him to you...to do with as you please.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Only mine?”

Voldemort frowns but then nods. “I _suppose_. He waves a bony hand at the doorway. "Now, remove yourself from my presence. You are dismissed.”

**TBC...**


	7. The Dark Lord's Gift

 

 

**.7.**

 

 

I place a cold pitcher of water on the nearby bed stand and charm it with a stasis charm. Often times, I wake in the middle of the night with a scratchy throat, but especially tonight, when I will be sharing my bed for the first time in years, I want to be as hospitable as possible. Sharing a bed with an old man like myself is probably scarring enough.

I pull the covers off my side of the bed, the left, and crawl inside. The bed feels warm, much warmer than usual, which is odd since I haven’t changed the temperature in the room. It’s the same as it always is—cold—just the way I like it. I take a quick glance at the other night table, the one closest to me, and scowl. 

My latest reading material is lying there, a book on the Chemistry of Experimental Potions and Reactions just waiting to be read. Every night before bed, it’s my ritual to read at least a chapter or two, but the air in the room is already stretched thin. The silence between Draco and I is almost too much to bear. He hasn’t said a word since he heard of his fate.

He just stands there in his green striped pyjamas; his eyes are wide and focused on the bed, surely in fear. I let out another quiet sigh into my pillow. Does the boy think that little of me—that I’m a monster and will force him to sleep with me, force him to offer things I would never dare ask for? I might be a Death Eater, a murderer, a fugitive, and a million other horrid things, but I am not a paedophile or a sexual predator.

I would never force another to engage in intercourse or any other sexually related act. The idea is revolting. I do have some principles, and even if my treacherous body does desire the boy, at least physically, I won’t act on those feelings. How can I?  Yes, Draco’s of age now, but he’s still a student and twenty years my junior. Besides, what can I offer a boy like him? 

His pale hair hangs flat around his face; the sharp angles have receded slightly since the last time I was this close to him, that dreadful evening. His hair doesn’t have the lustrous shine it used to, the one that all the Malfoys have had for ages, which I used to believe was an illusion.

But he’s still attractive, delicate and handsome in his own way, so much more so than I was at his age. And certainly more so than I am now. I’m nothing more than an old, sallow man. How could anyone as youthful and beautiful as he is want me?   The idea probably gives him nightmares.

Draco continues to look at me, his eyes impossibly wide and his lips twisted in a nervous line. He plays with his fringe, pushing it forwards, a few strands falling over his eyes. It’s getting long, longer than her ever wore it at Hogwarts, touching his collarbone.

I have the strangest urge to brush that hair out of his face, to caress his skin and see if it’s really as soft as it looks. But those are mutinous thoughts. A boy like that, a boy who even if he does fancy blokes can have his pick, will _never_ fancy his old hooked nose professor.

I need to remove these thoughts from my mind before I do something I’ll regret. The boy’s technically mine, a gift from the Dark Lord, and I’m only human.

“Goodnight,” I say, turning my body and head away from him, burying it in my pillow.

I cast a quick Nox, sending the room into total darkness. Perhaps it’s not the most hospitable thing to do, but I cannot stare at him for another second. Draco’s more than capable with a wand, and even if this is _my_ room, it’s still his home after all. He probably knows all these rooms like the back of his hand, and if he doesn’t, well, he’ll figure it out soon enough. 

Soft footsteps echo in the darkness and the silence of the room. He doesn’t even bother to acknowledge my goodnight or to refute it either. The footsteps are heading away from the bed, probably into the adjoining washroom. I let out a sigh of relief. I’m not ready for him to climb into bed with me just yet. This will at least grant me several minutes to compose myself before he returns.  Oh Merlin, what have I got myself into.

I roll over and stare at the black ceiling, gazing at the crown-moulding that I could barely make out from its shadows. My heart pounds inside my chest and I need to relax. No one has ever had this effect on me, not since Lily all those years ago. What’s happening? Why am I letting this wretched brat do this to me?

He isn’t even that attractive, not with that pinched look he usually has on his face. I heave another sigh and bury my face in the pillow again. Even though Draco has a washroom routine that rivals a witch, he will not be gone forever. If anything, he’ll return at any minute.  My best bet is to sleep or at least pretend to be asleep when he returns. I roll over again, attempting to get comfortable and close my eyes, trying to force all thoughts of those pained grey eyes from my mind.

He’s _only_ a boy. I must remember that. I feel like those four words are becoming my mantra. I’m the adult, his teacher. I should know better. And I do.  I really do, but knowing better and doing the right thing are not always synonymous. This is a lesson I have learnt the hard way.   

For once, I need to do the right thing.  I keep my eyes closed and attempt to clear my mind, cursing myself for not thinking of taking some Dreamless Sleep before heading to bed. It’s too late to get up now and will only make the situation that much more uncomfortable. I dread to think what I will dream about. 

Luck appears to be on my side tonight, and before Draco returns from the bathroom, I drift off into the darkness of my subconscious, hopefully not dreaming about anything too perverted.

 

**TBC…**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Thanks for reading. Next chapter will finally have more Draco and his reaction to sharing a bed with Severus.


	8. The Dream

**. 8 .**

 

I have never mastered the art of dream recall. Sometimes my dreams are vivid, but that night, only streams of blurry images float through my mind.

 _Albus falls off the tower, a quiver in his voice as he pleads with me to complete my final crime, the most abhorrent of my crimes, murdering the only man I considered a friend and mentor. Haunted grey eyes stare at me as if I were some type of monster. Narcissa’s pained cries. And those soft familiar lips steal a kiss, caressing me ever so gently and carefully as if he were afraid I would snarl at him like the rabid beast I pretend to be_.

None of it makes sense. All the images blur together and taunt me. At the very end of the dream, all I can see is sad green eyes, shining with despair. Lily’s sweet voice usually so melodic is now broken and strained.  “ _Severus, how could you?  I thought you loved me._ ”

Eventually, I jerk awake and sit up, gasping for air. It’s so striking: her face, the tears.  So very real.  Just another nightmare, I remind myself. But it’s been so long since I’ve had one that involved _her_. I thought my mourning period finally closed. In my lifetime, there are so many things that I’m ashamed of, that I regret, but my biggest regrets will always be losing Lily – twice – and Albus. I have tried to do right by him, to attempt to make up for all the crimes I’ve committed in my life. If Albus said jump, I always said how high, but sometimes, he asked for too much.

Blood has been on my hands for years, I can hardly remember a time of innocence.  Still, there’s something impersonal about all the other murders I’ve committed. I didn’t know those people, mainly Muggles, and convinced myself that every war produces necessary casualties. In the end, the future of the wizarding world was more important than the lives of several Muggles. One life is so meaningless in the grand scheme of things—but killing my mentor, a man that was more of a father to me than my own—I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to recover. Sometimes, the pain is unbearable.

And now, Draco and Narcissa weigh on my subconscious as well. In Lucius’ absence, I have taken it upon myself to protect them, to make sure that they survive.

Yes, it started with Narcissa’s request, but it’s more. For reasons I can’t explain, they matter to me, more so than that Unbreakable Vow and no thanks to Lucius. I care about them, especially that insufferable brat that lies next to me. The thought of him not surviving this war causes an unpleasantness in my stomach that I cannot ignore.

I turn around to face him, hoping that I haven’t woken him. I don’t want him to see me like this, in such a state of disarray. The brat used to look up to me or at least respect me.   I don’t allow anyone to see my weaknesses, especially not a boy so many years my junior. The brat may get a horrid idea like to attempt and comfort me. 

Thank Salazar, he’s still asleep.  His thin chest rises and falls slowly, his arms wrapped protectively around his shoulders with his head tilted back and mouth open. _What an odd way to sleep_ , I think, and ignore the smirk that tugs on my lips. It’s almost as if he were hugging himself. Perhaps it’s too cold in the room. In the future, I’ll instruct the house-elves to light a fire. Sharing a bed with me is punishment enough; he doesn’t have to freeze as well.

As quietly as possible, I reach over him and pour myself some water, drinking it in a cool, fast gulp. My throat’s parched. I hope I didn’t cry out too much in my sleep.  I know that sometimes I have a tendency to kick and shout, but my restless nights have never bothered anyone. I’ve been sleeping in my own quarters for years now, far away from prying eyes that might overhear.

I place the glass on the table closest to me and then crawl back in bed, not wanting to disturb Draco with magic. The boy is oddly perceptive and sensitive to magic. I close my eyes and try to remove all the horrid images from my mind: Albus’ lifeless body, Lily’s broken expression.

Tomorrow will be a long day. The Dark Lord already mentioned that he will discuss a new mission with me. The idea already gives me chills.  I take deep, slow breaths and attempt to lull my subconscious into sleep. I don’t cast a Tempus charm, but the purple sky and lustrous moon alert me that it’s narrowing closer to morning. I need all the rest I can manage and so does Draco. 

 

**TBC…**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading. Since this chapter is so short, I'll update twice today. Draco will be back next chapter.


	9. Truth

**. 9 .**

 

The next few days pass uneventfully. The Dark Lord’s new plan is nowhere near as extreme or violent as I imagined. I thought he would want to seize the Ministry, especially now that he has several high-seated Ministry officials in his control. I am relieved that he is not ready to go down that route yet. The violent deaths of the last Muggle raid still cause me to shudder. I’m not ready to think about taking more lives. Luckily, all he wants is to discuss is Potter.

As usual, the Dark Lord is _hopelessly_ obsessed with the boy. He wants to know when the boy will be moved—if I’ve heard of any plans as to where he will go once he turns of age in the coming weeks. I know exactly what will become of the boy. Dumbledore and the Order have had the plan in place for months.

After recent events, they might change the details, but Potter will be moved seconds after he turns seventeen. I do not divulge these details to the Dark Lord. The Potter boy may not be my concern any longer, but I promised Albus that I will do everything in my power to keep him alive. I do not take my promises lightly.

Lying to the Dark Lord is no longer a chore. I have done it for so many years that it’s almost second nature. The words just slip off my tongue.

Thankfully, Voldemort is content with my answer. He believes that I am not certain of the exact plan, but that Potter will be shipped to the Weasleys’ home. I make a scornful remark about their hovel of a home and the Dark Lord tilts that absurdly long neck of his and laughs.

I’m not sure why I mock the Weasleys for their lack of wealth. I certainly do not come from money but neither does the Dark Lord. We’re both half-bloods who champion pureblood ideals. The similarities between us are uncanny. Sometimes, I fear that I’m becoming _too_ much like him—that one morning I’ll wake up and be a soulless fiend. Having Draco in my bed is not easing my doubts.

We’ve been sleeping in steely silence for a week now. Each night I crawl into bed, stare longingly at my reading material, and then turn out the lights. Draco goes into the bathroom for an extraordinarily long period of time and then climbs into bed next to me, so carefully and quietly that I almost fail to notice him. The bed in my chambers is large, a Queen mattress, and the two of us make sure to use up every inch. I stay on my side of the bed and he stays on his.

The middle of the bed remains empty. Every morning, when I wake, I find that he has inched his way closer to me, still far enough away that we don’t touch, but his long limbs and fair hair have crossed over the invisible line that separates us. I doubt the brat does it on purpose, but the closer he is when I wake, the faster I have to excuse myself to the bathroom. If he reached out and touched me in my sleep, I don’t know what I’d do. It would probably be something insanely inappropriate like smack him, or worse yet, touch him back. 

The Dark Lord is still speaking. He rambles on and on about Potter, purebloods, and filthy Muggles. I have heard this speech so many times before that I could recite it in my sleep. I nod along at the proper times and he seems content.  Eventually, he dismisses me.

“You’re excused, Severus,” he says, waving his bony hand at the door. “Good night.”

I bow my head, holding it in that position for several seconds and then excuse myself. 

“Sleep well, My Lord.”  The words fall from my lips like thinly veiled shards of glass. They are only half-true. For once, I am too preoccupied to worry about the Dark Lord and his devious plans.

The walk back to my room feels eternal. Of course, the halls of Malfoy Manor are long and extravagant, but my room has never felt this far away from the Dark Lord’s quarters.

My heart is doing that absurd fluttering thing again, which I cannot explain. It’s all _his_ fault. I know this. It’s irrational and natural all at the same time. It does not make me hate him any less. He’s such an arrogant brat. An insufferable pain in the arse. If only my cock understood.

 

*******

 

Draco waits for me on the bed, his long legs dangling off and hair wet and freshly bathed. I want to make a joke, tell him he looks like a drowned rat, but I cannot. The truth is that even with his fair hair plastered to his forehead and dripping down his neck and the sides of his face, he’s beautiful. The most beautiful boy I have seen in ages, if not ever, and certainly the most beautiful creature that has ever graced my bed.

Lucius was handsome at his age, Narcissa turned heads wherever she went. But Draco possesses a beauty that is uniquely his own, softer than his father’s and fiercer than his mother’s. He does not possess their effortless grace and elegance; he still seems uncomfortable in his own skin and has not mastered control of his emotions like his parents, yet he’s striking and alluring in his own way.

I can’t take my eyes off him. I want to reach out and brush those wet strands from his face, towel away the droplets on his neck. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I should not be having these thoughts. Yet, I can’t control them.

Uncomfortable heat stirs deep within my groin. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck_. I cannot get a hard on right now, not before going to bed and lying inches away from him. Thank Salazar that he’s wearing pyjamas. I don’t think I could be responsible for my actions if I would have found him half naked on my bed.

I clear my throat and try to break the heavy silence that looms in the room. He’s staring at me all wide-eyed and innocent, like he used to do when he was a child and wanted something. His eyes take on a silvery glow in the moonlight, which pierces in through the windows. The curtains are pushed back. He must have been star gazing, imagining what it’s like to be outside, away from this prison, away from me.

The poor boy has not seen the light of day since we left Hogwarts on that dreadful night. I don’t get out that often, but at least every couple of days, the Dark Lord has some sort of task for me, some sort of quest that although horrifying allows me to breathe in some fresh air and rejuvenate my lungs. Why did I not consider this before? He must have cabin fever.

“Draco,” I finally say, avoiding his gaze and instead look out the windows. I want to call him Mr Malfoy, like I always do, like I always did, but the words cannot find my mouth, especially not when he’s sitting on my bed in such a dishevelled state, and I’m only thinking of further dishevelling him and pounding him into that mattress.

“Spit it out. I don’t have all night.” My tone is harsher than I intend—cold and cutting. The same tone I usually reserve for my least favourite students.

He opens his mouth and gawks at me, his eyes opening even wider at my hard tone. A brief flicker of emotion flashes behind his eyes. For a moment, I find pain, longing, and want all rolled up into one in those bright grey eyes, but within a blink of the eye, the emotion is gone. He’s once again regarding me with cool, hard eyes and a sneer on his face, his Malfoy mask. Oh, how familiar that looks is—the same one that Lucius has hidden behind for years. A strange pain forms in my chest at the thought of him regarding me like that.

“Where were you?” 

His tone is accusatory and I meet his hard glare with a glower of my own. He should know better than to try to wear me down with one of his petty glares. That’s child’s play. I have reduced students into quivering blubbering messes for years now. He’s only a seventeen-year-old boy. 

“Out.”  My tone is clipped and I lift my chin and scrunch my nose in disapproval. How dare he question me? He is but a boy, a guest in my room. He was gifted to me. Clearly, Draco has forgotten his place. I have let him become too comfortable. He doesn’t respect me.

 _But hasn’t that always been the case_ , a traitorous voice reminds me in the back of my mind. _Haven’t you always allowed him to get away with a bit more than your average student, even your Slytherins?_   I sniff disapprovingly at my conscious and pretend to direct it to Draco. 

“Doing what?

The brat doesn’t back down. Obviously, he doesn’t know what’s good for him. I know at least a hundred different ways to murder him in his sleep, ten different ways to dismember him silently without lifting my wand. Yet, somehow he thinks he can talk back to me. Draco is either colossally brave or colossally stupid. I never would have pegged him for a Gryffindor.

I let out a long, exaggerated sigh and take a seat on the bed as far away from him as possible. “If you must know, I was with the Dark Lord.”

He bites down on the corner of his lip, a nervous habit he seems to have picked up in the last few weeks. 

“Oh.”

I snort and roll my eyes, keeping my gaze glued towards the ceiling. “Yes, oh, indeed, Mr Malfoy,” I say, trying to hide my satisfaction of regaining the upper hand I should have always had in the conversation.

He lowers his head, staring down at his hands, which are shuffling with his shirt sleeves. “What did he? Am I? Is Fath-?”

The words cannot leave his lips. He hides his face underneath his hair and pulls on the sleeves roughly, picking apart a loose thread and wrapping it around his long, slim fingers. 

“There is no news on your father.” I no longer use my hard tone. “My meeting with him did not concern you.”

“Oh.”  He lets out a heavy sigh, a breath he probably didn’t realise he was holding.

The air is awkward between us. Again. This is the longest conversation we have had in weeks. We used to be able to talk for hours, but now holding a conversation is as painful as pulling teeth, or worse yet, spending time with a Gryffindor. 

Draco continues to hang his head, his pale hands shaking now ever so slightly. He tries to hide them within his sleeves, so I won’t notice. But nothing ever slips by me.  If I did not notice everything around me, even the trivial details, I would not have survived this long as a double agent.

I take pity on him. I’m not exactly sure why. I’ve never been this soft before. In my lifetime, I’ve seen more than my fair share of students fall apart in front of me, but something about him, about this annoying boy has intoxicated me, stumped me—and  I fear to think where this stupid infatuation will lead.

“Is there anything else?”  I say, trying to keep my voice even. I want to reach out and touch him, to put a hand on his shoulder and comfort him. I have never been good at that type of thing. However, I remember calling Draco into my office and telling him about Lucius’ arrest, about how Potter and his gang of idiots were involved, and how it looked unlikely that he would be released anytime soon. Draco tried to be strong. He attempted to put on a brave face and walk out of my office after thanking me.

As he turned the handle to leave, I called out to him. All I said was his name, but it was enough. He collapsed on the floor, right in front of my door and buried his head in his arms. Silent tears pooled down his face, and the overwhelming urge to comfort overtook me. I could not rest until he was calm. Nothing else was important.

The same urge is taking me over now. Perhaps I’ve grown soft in my old age. Or perhaps it’s just him, this idiot boy, who even then, almost a year ago, I already held unnatural and harboured feelings for without even realising it.

Draco raises his head and meets my eyes; his eyes are glassy, unshed tears threatening the corners of his thick lashes. I cannot bear to see him cry again. “When...” He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

His hands are still shaking and he buries them within the comforter, strangling it. I pretend not to notice. “When,” he tries again, his voice is still wavering. “When-are-you-going-to-take-what’s-yours?”

I raise an eyebrow. What is he talking about? He cannot be implying what I think he is. Does he really think that I would do that? I thought we surpassed this stupid idea the first night, that he no longer feared me. Has he really been living in terror all these nights, frightened that I would attempt to molest him in his sleep? 

My undigested dinner protests in my gut, sour bile ramming its way up my oesophagus. How can he think such thoughts of me? As if I were some kind of crazed monster, no better than Greyback or Bellatrix, no better than the Dark Lord himself.

“What?”

He takes another breath, shallower this time, and opens his mouth. “I’m not daft.” His voice is stronger, much closer to his usual drawl. “I know why I’m here, that the Dark Lord gave me to you.”

My eyes widen in horror, my stomach flip-flopping into my throat.

“It’s been more than a week now and you haven’t collected yet.”

I glower at him, my entire face contorting with malice. “What. Exactly. Are. You. Implying. Mr. Malfoy?”  My voice drips with venom, so cold that Draco shudders and shuffles away from me on the bed.

He’s biting on the corner of his mouth again. All the colour has drained from his face. He hunches his shoulders and recoils away from me; that same uncomfortable pang burns in my chest at seeing that pained look on his face, knowing that I’m responsible. Draco doesn’t trust me. He thinks I plan on raping him. I’m certain that I’ll have to excuse myself to vomit.

“You-you know what I mean.” His face takes on a greyish tinge. “What Greyback wanted to do with me.”

I close my eyes and bite down on my tongue, hard, so hard that I draw blood and don’t even wince as the coppery-metallic taste spreads through my mouth.

“I don’t know what I did to give you the impression that I molest my students, Mr Malfoy, but I can assure you that your _honour_ ,” I spit the word out as if it gives me an unpleasant taste in my mouth, “is perfectly _safe_.”  I curl my lip into a sneer and scoff. “You know about the vow I made to your mother. Once again, I was trying to protect you. It’s not my fault that you’re too bloody thick to see it.” 

I turn away from him and rise from the bed, quickly heading into the adjoining bathroom. I hear Draco start to protest and quickly silence him with a firm, “Goodnight.”  The discussion is over. Yes, I wanted to make a dramatic exit, but my stomach really is revolting. As soon as I lock the bathroom door behind me, I lose the entire contents of my dinner into the sink.

 

*******

 

When I find my way into the bedroom again, the room is completely dark and Draco is already asleep; light snores echo around the room. I have never been more thankful to hear that grating sound. As quietly as possible, I make my way over to my side of the bed and lie down, tucking the blankets over myself and placing a pillow in between us. 

 _How absurd_ , I think. It’s not as if a stupid pillow is going to act like any kind of shield. The Queen bed that used to seem so vast when I first inhabited this room, feels cramped. I notice that he’s sleeping on the edge of the bed, as far away from my half of the bed as possible. This notion should bring me comfort; instead, it shoots another sharp pang to my chest.

What the bloody hell has this boy done to me?

  

**TBC…**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me for this chapter. Draco didn't mean to make Severus feel sick. It's more about Severus' own shame and emotional issues than Draco. I promise that next chapter will remedy the situation and there will be smut. Yes, Smut is finally coming. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and comments are always appreciated.


	10. Draco's Apology

 

**. 10 .**

 

Exhaustion wears me down; my chest is still shaking from all the dry heaving and a cold sweat drips down my face. But sleep comes easily. As soon as I close my eyes, I drift off. Surprisingly, my dreams are not filled with disturbing images. I sleep fitfully but deeply, as if I have just consumed a Dreamless sleep potion after a disturbing nightmare. The much needed rest does not last. Only a few hours later, a soft cry shakes me awake.

"I'm sorry," Draco murmurs. I feel his face next to mine, his breath hot against my ear and soft strands of hair tickling my face. I blink rapidly but stay glued to the bed. My limbs are numb as if a full body bind were cast on me.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. This time his lips actually brush against my ear. "I never should have...I don't think...You've always been _—_ "

He stumbles on his words, as he did that night in the abandoned classroom when he leant over and kissed me. Merlin's beard, why am I thinking such dangerous thoughts? This has nothing to do with _that_ night. Just because he kissed me then, does not mean he'll do it now. In fact, I do _not_  want the brat to kiss me. I'm the adult here. I never should have allowed it then and certainly cannot allow such foul play to occur ever again.

"Draco." His hands find their way to my neck. Softly, he traces the contours with his index finger, barely grazing my skin as if he's afraid that I'll hex his finger off. I should put a stop to this. It isn't right. The shame is building in my stomach again. Yet, all I manage to do is lean in further to his touch.

" _Draco_ ," I try again.

My voice is lost in the back of my throat, mouth helplessly dry. I have never been a loquacious man. People that waffle on and on about Merlin knows what have always irritated me. A million thoughts ricochet off the walls of my mind at all times, bouncing around like irretrievable snitches. I consider myself an intelligent man, an erudite, but that doesn't mean that I need to voice my every thought. At the moment, however, with his hands stroking my neck and his lips ghosting it, following the trail of his hands, I am speechless. My mind is blank.

"You're _not_ like them."

He breathes the words into my neck. His voice is raspy and deep, sultry in a way that I have never heard, filled with lust. I want to push him away, say something. _Anything_.

His hands make his way under my shirt, first unfastening the top buttons. Oh, why in Merlin's name did I wear my silk buttoned down pyjamas? The palms of Draco's hands are soft, not a callous in sight, but cold. An involuntary shudder escapes my lips.

"Sorry," he whispers. "So sorry about everything." He removes his hands from my chest and I yearn for the contact again, not that I'll ever admit to it. "I'll warm them up," he says.

He rubs his hands together briskly in front of his face, and I stare at him dumbfounded. This is my chance. I need to say something, to stop this madness before it gets out of control.

"Draco, why?" I feel like a fool. This boy, because that's really all he is, has reduced me to a quivering pile of mush. How did this happen? No, one has done this to me – not since – not since _her_.

He stops rubbing his hands and meets my eyes. The room is still dark, the only light reflecting from the pale moonlight. There's a window behind the bed; Draco's close enough that I can make out his face. His eyes look silver in the faint light, shining brightly again, opened wider than I've ever seen.

"I want to," he tells me, his eyes still locked with mine. "I've wanted this for a long time." His hair is mussed and several long tufts are stuck to his forehead; small waves frame his face. He looks completely dishevelled again, more so than before, and I'm filled with the preposterous urge to jump him and shag him into the mattress. Merlin's fucking beard. What is the matter with me?

He sneaks his hands into my shirt again, no longer cold. Excruciatingly slow, he works his way down my chest, tracing the outline of my ribs, my faint abdominals. I shudder again, this time not even attempting to hide it. My cheeks are hot, blood rushing to them.

I'm not worried. For once, I don't care if my entire face is as red as a tomato. I'm more concerned about the blood flowing straight to my cock. If his hands continue teasing my stomach, working their way lower and lower, eventually, my half-hard cock will be impossible to hide.

"Don't—" I croak as he makes his ways to my pyjama bottoms. He unties the perfect knot I had taken so long to tie and starts inching them down my hips. My protests are weak and I know it. My traitorous hips are grinding into his soft touches, caresses.

"Let me," he insists, never removing his hands.

My pyjama bottoms are resting half way down my thighs, and I'm cursing myself for being too lazy to put on pants tonight. You cannot fault a bloke for liking the feel of silk on his balls.

"For once, I want to take care of _you_."

I want to protest again, to shove him off. But I don't. His ministrations feel amazing. It's been so bloody long since someone, anyone, has touched me. I used to frequent Muggle gay bars. Men are not as picky about who they let into their beds.

I know I'm not the most attractive of blokes, but as long as I wear my hair covering my face and cast a discreet Dillusionment Charm on my nose, finding willing blokes to take into the backroom is not a problem, especially once they get a look at my cock. I may not have been blessed in the looks department, but the same is not true below the belt.

While lost in my thoughts, I fail to notice that my pyjama bottoms are pushed down to my ankles. Draco is no longer looking at me, his gaze is locked on my cock, eyes opened wide in wonder. I can tell he's impressed and can't help but feel a bit smug. He _wants_ to touch me, and I should be telling him no, pushing him off.

I don't.

Without asking for permission, his right hand takes my firm cock in hand, delicately stroking it. I close my eyes and attempt not to shiver at his touch, even the gentle caress is enough to send a wave of pleasure straight through my body.

"Don't—" I attempt to say again, but the words are so weak that even I don't believe them.

"Beautiful," Draco says, and I let out a sound that is somewhere between a chuckle and a moan.

No one has ever called me beautiful. Nothing about me is beautiful. But of course a seventeen-year-old boy would find a fully erect cock beautiful. I wonder if it's the first one he's seen. No, that's a ludicrous thought. Clearly, he's checked out other boys in the showers or in the boys' locker room. I wonder why he's so impressed.

He parts his lips and brings his head down to my hips, taking a tentative lick of the tip of my cock. An overwhelming look of awe lights up his face. Perhaps it's the biggest he's seen. A smirk tugs on my lips. The boy may no longer be my student, but there are still things I can teach him.

He lifts his head for a second, those silver eyes glazed over in lust. His full lips are swollen and wet; he's asking for my permission. I can no longer deny him. The moment has long past and the line has been crossed. I close my eyes and nod, lowering my head back onto a pillow to make myself more comfortable. If this insanity is going to continue, I will bloody well enjoy it.

Within seconds, those wet lips are back on my cock. This time he wraps his entire mouth around my shaft, enveloping half of my prick. He starts sucking, slowly at first and then picking up the pace. I stretch my arms out, wrapping my hands in the sheets and grab onto the mattress for support. The boy is not an expert by any means.

His skills are sloppy. He's using too much saliva and not enough suction, but what he lacks in technique he's making up for in enthusiasm. That blond head of his bobs up and down quickly, and small groaning noises come from the back of his throat. I grind my hips up and down, trying to establish a comfortable rhythm. I motion for him to use his hands as well.

A faint blush creeps up his cheeks. Apparently, the idea of multitasking never crossed his mind. Once his hands are in motion too – his left hand slides up and down my cock in sync with his mouth and his right hand massages my balls – I find myself dangerously close to the edge.

It's been so long since I've bloody wanked that this sloppy blowjob is enough to turn me into an incoherent mess. My entire body shakes, waves of pleasure emitting their way down my back; my pulse is rapid and breath shallow. I unwrap my hand from the sweat soaked sheets and tug at Draco's head, pulling softly on those blond strands that I'm starting to become rather fond of.

"Draco—" My voice is an incoherent moan. "I'm—"

He shakes his head and ignores my warning, his lips never leaving my cock. Eventually, I can't hold on anymore. I tried to warn the brat, but if he doesn't want to listen, that's on him. With a final heavy thrust, I come, spurting deep into his throat.

I expect Draco to choke or sputter up the sour liquid. After all, semen is an acquired taste, but instead he sucks my cock entirely dry, lapping it up greedily. After sucking every last drop, he removes his lips and raises his head. His hair is even more ruffled and those lips are red and swollen. I have such an urge to kiss him, to taste myself and prove that this is real and not a dream.

Of course, I don't. Kissing is something that lovers do.

In all the years that I fooled around with the nameless blokes at seedy bars, I never once kissed them. And, this, well, I'm not entirely sure what this is, but lovers we are not. We shared that one tentative kiss and even if I can still taste the remains of it on my lips months later, I'm not foolish enough to instigate another. Kissing only leads to trouble, to horrid nuisances like attachment and feelings.

He licks the remaining come from his lips and smirks, a smugness curving his lips. Clearly, the brat thinks a lot of himself and his technique. I cannot complain. Even if his skills are less than superb, he gets the job done. I haven't come that quickly in ages.

"I've wanted to do that for months now." Draco reaches out and strokes my face; his warm hand caresses my cheek. "Thank you."

My eyes grow wide and I almost choke. "Thank you? Why the hell are you thanking me? I-" I look away from him, familiar shame hitting me. "That shouldn't have happened. I'm your professor. That was..." I struggle to find the right word. Despicable? Predatory? "Inappropriate," I finally say.

He snorts, tilting his neck back. The skin on his neck is so translucent and pale, blue veins peering through, that I'm immediately filled with the urge to lick it, to suck it until I've marked him as mine, even the angry scar is appealing. Why in Godric's hairy balls am I having these thoughts?

"Is something funny, Mr Malfoy?" I ask, scowling.

"I think it's hardly appropriate for you to call me, Mr Malfoy, anymore, _Severus_." He takes pleasure in using my given name, amusement sparkling in those clear eyes.

I let out a heavy sigh. "I suppose you're right." I lean forwards and pull up my pyjamas, not caring about the sticky mess that's left behind. Cleaning charms can wait until later or a nice long bath. I bang my head against the headboard of the bed and close my eyes. I no longer care if the boy sees my discomfort.

"You _didn't_ take advantage of me." Draco shifts on the bed; he leans closer and props himself up on one arm. "You really didn't," he insists, letting out a heavy sigh that matches mine. "I never should have said that. I don't think that. At all."

He runs his free hand through his hair, pushing it away from his forehead, and I swallow loudly. He really is beautiful. I have no idea why a boy who looks like _that_ wants anything to do with me. The Dark Lord's torture must have caused permanent damage to his brain.

"You're a child," I protest, looking up at the ceiling. If I focus on him any longer, I'm afraid of what it'll lead to.

He scoffs. "I haven't been a child for ages and you know that. Trust me," his voice takes on a sultry tone, "that was as good for me as it was for you."

"You're technique was less than adequate, sloppy even," I throw back. "Don't give yourself such a big head."

The wide smile disappears from Draco's face; his lips thin into a scowl. "You didn't protest before," he grumbles. "If the noises that you made are any indication, then my technique was far from _sloppy_ and much more than adequate."

My eyes narrow and I give him a scathing look, the utter nerve of the brat, speaking to me as if I were one of his peers. At least he has the good sense to look sheepish and bites his lip, looking away.

"Sorry," he mutters, staring down at the comforter. "I wanted to, okay? I've wanted you forever and I should have found another way." He pauses and takes a breath. "I'm sorry about the bathroom. I heard and I didn't...I didn't think, Sev—"

"Enough." I shove him, knocking his propped arm out from underneath him. He falls with a heavy thud, his limbs tangling with mine. "Get some sleep," I say. It isn't a request. "It's almost morning and we have to wake in a few bloody hours."

I shift away from him, untangling our limbs and glance out the window. The moon is higher in the sky; a deep purple informs me my assumption is correct. Morning is already here, and even if we go to bed immediately, we'll only get a few hours of rest.

"Severus—"

I snap my eyes away from the window and scowl. "Don't test me, Draco. Not—"

"Fine." He turns away from me and buries his face in his pillow. "Goodnight."

I breathe out a quiet sigh of relief and attempt to make myself comfortable. My heart is still thumping; it feels like it's in my throat. I can't quite grasp what's happened. It still feels like a dream.

Reluctantly, I close my eyes. There's no sense in trying to make sense of this tonight. Events transpired and they cannot be undone. Perhaps it's best, for Draco's sake, for both our sakes, to brush it off and pretend it didn't happen. Surely, Draco has already got this absurd notion out of his system.

Once again, I try to clear my mind, starting to count backwards from fifty. As I'm about to drift off, I feel a warm body shift closer. The brat is trying to cuddle; his head is practically on my pillow, his leg pressed into my thigh. This is incredibly strange. Blokes _do_ _not_ cuddle, especially not after sex, and this is not just any bloke. He's a former student. I've known the brat his entire life.

For some absurd reason, I don't push him away.

 

**TBC…**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! 
> 
> This is my first time writing Snaco smut, so I'd really love to hear your thoughts on this scene and Severus' character in general. This is only my second time writing Severus in a fic. I found it took a lot of time to get his voice right in my head, and I'm wondering how others feel about his characterisation in this fic. Is it believable?


	11. The Last Supper

**. 11 .**

 

Three weeks have passed since that night where I lost my bloody mind and let a former student suck my cock. Since then, I've avoided Draco at all costs. It's not easy to avoid someone that you share a room with and are supposed to be in charge of, but I managed. It appears that he is as keen on avoiding me. As much as it pains me to admit this, I was right.

After that messy blowjob, Draco got me out of his system. Whatever twisted desire he harvested, whether it was hormonal, spell induced, or just completely irrational, disappeared. Things are back to normal. Or at least as normal as they can possibly be.

I avoid the boy at all costs, but it's not as easy to remove him from my mind. There are many other obstacles to consider, so many more important events, like the Dark Lord's upcoming attack on Hogwarts and his suspicions of my betrayal. I should be focusing on those, outcomes that are vital to my existence.

I have always been a rational man. But as soon as I close my eyes, all I can see is Draco's blond head, bobbing up and down enthusiastically on my cock. Those grey eyes shine so brightly at me—as if there were nowhere else in the world he wanted to be—as if a boy whom looks like him, could actually want to be with an old codger like myself. It's completely irrational and surreal. I must have hallucinated the entire act, but that doesn't mean that I can remove it from my mind.

I've become a former shell of myself. Usually, I pride myself on my ability of detachment from my feelings, of detachment from morality, to do what needs to be done. Yet, something about this annoying boy has defeated me—something about him has broken my inability to feel and has torn down all my defences.

Some days I can barely stand it, but today – the last day of my life – I must have my closure.

There are things Draco needs to know in case I don't survive the final battle. I have to be cautious though. There are too many mixed emotions running through my mind. If I were to find myself alone with him, to allow myself to indulge in one more lapse of judgement, then I may say something dense, something I will always regret.

Most people think that I'm a miserable old bastard, and it's absolutely true. I pride myself on my cleverly constructed image, which I have worked tirelessly and intently to convey. One simple boy will _not_ destroy it. I always thought that Voldemort would be the death of me. Perhaps I was wrong and my death will come in the form of an arrogant blond schoolboy. There are worse ways to die, I suppose.

My imminent death changes my view on the world. I've never feared death. I can pinpoint a handful of times where I actually longed for it, where I would have preferred for my pathetic and painful life to end.

Tomorrow is the final battle. The Dark Lord has planned an attack and siege on Hogwarts. I have done everything in my power to prevent it. The Order and even that intolerable Potter boy have been notified. They are taking all the proper precautions to prepare. I have done my part and have kept my promise to both Albus and Lily. Now, it's in their hands.

I always knew this day would come, the day of my death, the final battle. I never assumed to survive it. How could I? A spy for the order. A half-blood Death Eater traitor. I'm a wanted man by both sides, and if one side doesn't kill me, then the other will rip me apart. The fragility of life has never held importance to me. Too many people have been lost. I've always welcomed death, assumed that it would be a peaceful rest.

For the first time in my life, I'm terrified. The idea of taking my final breath on that battlefield tomorrow petrifies me. I always thought that I would be okay with it, but as usual, I decided much too late in life that I want to live—that I want to survive this war. There is still so much that I want to do and experience. My entire life cannot consist of only a fight against the madness of power-hungry fools and the darkness within myself. I need something more. I need _someone_ more.

After Lily died, I told myself that I will never love again. I was certain of it. No one else would be her. No one else could match that beautiful and innocent girl that I met during childhood. That has not changed. Lily will always have a special and irrefutable place in my heart. She's my _always_ —the better part of me that expired and was buried with her.

After her death, I've been living as half a man. My soul has been broken. Who would want a man with a half a soul? I thought that I would never feel again, not after losing _her_. But something about _him_ – about this insane yet beautiful boy – has awakened feelings deep within me that I thought were long dead.

If I'm honest, I know that these feelings have been stirring for months. Perhaps even longer. I've denied it for too long, allowed my shame to consume me, to force me to ignore these emotions. If today is my last day on earth, I can no longer live in constant stream of self-induced humiliation. I must take my chance and find my closure.

 

*** * ***

 

Dinner is a muted affair. Everyone knows the Dark Lord's plan—that he plans on taking over Hogwarts tomorrow. A feast has been prepared and we're all allowed to celebrate as long as we turn in early. He treats us like children, invoking curfews. I cannot understand how the others tolerate him. It's both insulting and humiliating.

The roast lamb with port wine sauce, potatoes au gratin, and haricots verts lyonnaise is exquisite. As usual, the house-elves have outdone themselves, but my appetite is absent. I only manage a few small bites and then decide to drink my dinner instead.

Aged bottles of Elf wine, firewhiskey, and fairy liquor fill the table. Someone who has a genetic predisposition to alcoholism like myself, should not overindulge in spirits. I've know this all my life. At the moment, I cannot bring myself to care. The impending doom that awaits is enough to make me reckless.

The Dark Lord watches me, studying me with those unnerving red eyes of his, as I nurse my full glass of firewhiskey and ignore the food. Sometimes, it's still strange to see the Dark Lord eat. He is so far removed from humanity that it surprises me that he still needs a triviality such as food to sustain his life source. He scarfs down his food, tearing into each rack of lamb as if it were prey, sucking each bone dry. No one comments on his appalling manners.

Bellatrix sits on his right hand side, the seat that I used to occupy. She ignores her own plate in favour of watching the Dark Lord consume his, a look of absolute hunger etched on her sallow face. When the Dark Lord finishes, she leans over and whispers in his ear. A feral grin washes over her. Without any explanation, the Dark Lord stands from the table and exits the room, Bellatrix hanging on his heels. No one asks where they go. The answer's obvious to anyone with eyes. Bellatrix has been warming the Dark Lord's bed for months; Rodolphus hangs his head in shame.

A terrible heat flushes down my neck. I almost feel sorry for the man. _Almost._ Shame is an emotion that I'm acquainted with—that I understand all too well. The alcohol must be affecting me. I turn to look at Draco, the first time I meet his eyes in weeks, and watch, as a deep, scarlet rises up his cheeks. He gives me a shy smile and that little bit of teeth he flashes, the slight pout of those full lips, is enough to unnerve me. It sends a direct twitch to my cock.

Before this gets out of hand, I rise from the table and excuse myself. Our conversation can wait. I will not embarrass myself in a room of full of Death Eaters and former colleagues. Everyone knows that I have fallen out of the Dark Lord's favour. I refuse to show any further weakness and open an invitation to attack me.

 

**TBC…**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I apologize for the shortness of this chapter. There are only 2 chapters left and they are both quite long! I'd also consider adding an epilogue if there is enough interest. 
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts and don't worry there is more smut coming the final chapters. A lot more. ; )


	12. Giving in-The Night Before the Final Battle

**. 12 .**

 

I change into those same silk pyjamas, which I haven't worn in weeks and lie in bed, book in hand. If this will be my last night on earth, then I decide that there are worse ways to spend it than reading. The few accomplishments in my life that I'm proud of all involve academics. My work and research have made me happy, or as happy as one can be with a half a soul.

Weeks have passed since I last read for pleasure. My nights are restless, always jumping into bed and extinguishing the lights as quickly as possible, so I don't have to look at his face.

 _Advanced Potion Making for the Experimental Chemist_ : the book is fascinating. The author's a Muggle-born, who has integrated his knowledge of Muggle Chemistry in experimental application to Potion making. He uses it to redefine and reverse magical reactions that were thought to be irreversible and also to shorten the preparation and brewing time by incorporating the use of catalysts, both Muggle and magical, into various reactions.

Giving another Potion's Master credit is a rare occurrence for me. Naturally, I always prefer my own methods since they are tried and true, but I have to admit that the research and arguments in this book are flawless. If somehow I survive this blasted war, I'll be certain to incorporate at least some of these techniques into my work. The idea of catalysts and shortened brewing times is so remarkable and useful that it could revolutionise the field of potion making forever. If only, I had been the one to come up with it.

Time gets away from me. I don't know how long I sit there, engrossed in my book, lost from the rest of the world, but a soft voice pulls me out of my concentration bubble.

" _Severus_."

I look up and Draco stands in front of the bed; his cheeks are flushed, pupils dilated, and hair mussed. It appears that I'm not the only one who imbibed too much to drink with dinner.

"Mr Malfoy." I nod my head in greeting and then lower it, returning to my book.

"Draco," he corrects. "I hate when you call me, Mr Malfoy. We're not in school in anymore."

I pull my lips into a tight scowl and avoid his eyes. They're shining brightly, so full of life that I can feel a familiar heat stirring in my groin.

"Very Well."

"What are you doing?"

If I had doubts before, they've been erased. Draco is intoxicated, beyond pissed. He flops himself on the bed next to me, and leans his head over my shoulder to peer at the book.

I snap the book shut and shuffle further away, having his hot breath next to my ear is too overwhelming.

"Is there something you _need_?"

Draco doesn't catch my icy tone and instead shuffles closer. He has the audacity to rest his head on my lap. For some daft reason, I let him.

"Yes," he says coolly. "Look what I borrowed from the kitchens." He pulls out an almost full bottle of firewhiskey from behind his back. How did I miss it? Perhaps because I'm too busy looking at those flushed cheeks, the small beads of sweat that are accumulating on his forehead.

I deepen my scowl and try to hide the lust that's pooling in my groin. "Don't you think you've had enough?"

Draco shrugs and then turns over on his back, resting his head in my lap. Those clear grey eyes stare right at me, penetrating. "Not really. Come on, Sev, you know what tomorrow is. This could be our last night together. You're not going to make me drink this by myself are you? There'll be puke all over your clean sheets." He purses his lips and then smirks. "And your favourite pyjamas."

I hold his gaze for several moments before answering. He's right. Tonight will be my last night on earth. I'm certain that the Dark Lord knows of my betrayal. At some point during the battle, the Dark Lord will find a way to dispose of me. My chances of survival are slim.

I know all this. I've a _lways_ known this. It's never mattered before. I even welcomed it, but my heart is racing uncontrollably in my chest. My breath catches in the back of my throat, blood pooling to my cock.

Before these last few months, I haven't held an erection in years. I thought something was wrong—that it was impossible for me to be aroused. Sharing a room with Draco has made me feel like a teenager again. I become hard at the slightest provocation, just by having a warm body close.

I _want_ this. I _need_ this. I'm not strong enough to deny him again. When one's imminent death grows closer, self-control wanes with each passing minute.

"Alright." I try not to betray any emotion in my voice. "You're _incorrigible_. But get some glasses. I will not drink from a bottle. We're civilized."

Draco snorts but removes himself from my chest and obliges, finding two nearby glasses. He pours an absurdly large amount of firewhiskey into two glass tumblers and hands me one. I take a heavy sip and gulp it down with ease. This is aged reserve firewhiskey, obviously expensive and from Lucius' private stores. Draco does not fare as well. He attempts to chug down the firewhiskey but winces and chokes after he swallows.

I roll my eyes and pretend that I don't find it amusing. It's regrettable that Draco doesn't possess his mother's decorum. Narcissa would be horrified to see her only son sputtering firewhiskey. My lips curve into a crooked smile.

"Make sure to tilt back your neck," I tell him.

He flashes me that radiant smile of his. I am so royally fucked.

 

*** * ***

 

We've both indulged in too much firewhiskey. Without even realising, the entire bottle is emptied, most of it imbibed by me. Due to my age and genetic disposition, I have a high tolerance, but tonight, I've overdone it. The alcohol has gone straight to my head, to my cock. I watch Draco sit on the bed, a far off dreamy look in his eyes. His lips are red and pouted.

All I want to do is kiss him, to fuck him hard and deep. Restraining myself is almost impossible.

I turn to look at Draco and want to say something, to tell him to be safe, to explain my true loyalties. But I _can't._ All I can do is stare, get lost into those smouldering grey eyes. The silence is almost deafening. I open my mouth, trying to find something to say. It's rare for me to be dumbstruck. I feel like a foolish boy again. I may be 20 years older, but tonight my maturity level is the same as his. Nothing comes to mind.

Draco surprises me with a kiss. His lips are hot against mine. The last kiss we shared was soft and tentative; this one is fierce and demanding. His teeth nip at my bottom lip, coaxing out a moan.

"Draco," I whisper, pulling away from his lips and staring into those lust filled eyes.

"Please," he whimpers, "please, Severus."

His pleads undo me. I know this is wrong, that shame will fill every fibre of my being in the morning. Who cares? I'm only human and have denied myself his touch for too long. Turning back is not an option. Not anymore.

I don't respond but instead shove him against the mattress, pinning him underneath my arms with my weight.

"No more talking."

His eyes grow wider, a bewitching tungsten shade of silver. He nods in agreement and wets his lips.

"Strip," I tell him. It's not a request.

I turn away for a moment and remove my own pyjamas, throwing them on the nearest chair. When I turn back, Draco lies completely naked, blond hair fanned on a pillow and arms tucked behind his head. It's as if the boy arranged himself like a present. The most enticing present I've ever found in my bed. My erection, which deflated slightly as I undressed, is now rock hard again. Even if I imagined it countless times, this is the first time I've seen him naked.

He's even more beautiful than I imagined—long, lean legs, a slight but toned torso, and a firm, pink cock. The war has taken its toll on Draco; it's obvious from the prominence of his ribs. He's still the most beautiful man I've ever seen. My mouth waters and my cock gives a little twitch. If I had any doubt before that I will actually go through with this, those doubts have been erased.

"Gorgeous," I tell him, as I crawl closer to him on the bed. A shudder runs down my back. I shut my eyes and lick a long stripe down his neck, which I've wanted to do for months. He moans against my lips, his erection digging into my thigh.

"More," he begs.

I continue licking and sucking down his neck, slowly working my way down, first to his chest, paying extra attention to those two pink, pert nipples, teasing them with my tongue, and then down his torso. My cock aches and Draco continues grinding his erection against my thigh.

"Stay still."

" _Please_."

Foreplay has always been an indulgence of mine. The teasing is half the fun, but my own cock throbs painfully. At this rate, I won't last long, and I don't want Draco to come against my leg, like some kind of feral crup.

"Turn over."

The words have not finished coming out of my mouth before Draco obeys them. He turns over with a thud and wiggles his arse in my face. His arse is a thing of beauty: round and firm, much rounder than one would imagine for a boy of his slim stature. I feel the need to grab it and massage his cheeks. He doesn't seem to mind.

As I deepen my massage, Draco lets out a low moan. Normally, I like to take the time to slowly relax and open up my lovers. Not this time. The need is too great. I've consumed too much firewhiskey and am doubtful that I'll be up for a second round. This needs to happen immediately.

I cast a discreet stretching and lubrication charm and smirk as Draco squirms and moans below me. His lack of surprise at the charm calms me. I didn't want to be the one to take his virginity.

"Cold," he rasps.

I shake my head and lick my lips. His voice is captivating. "Only for a moment," I explain. Carefully, I insert a finger inside Draco, pushing it in and out slowly. When I don't feel any resistance, I add a second and quicken the pace. Eventually, a third follows.

"Is that better?" I ask, once I know he's sufficiently loose and wet.

"Yes," he mumbles into the mattress. "Severus, please. Do it."

He doesn't need to tell me twice. I remove my fingers and then wrap my left hand around my cock. It's still hard, just watching my fingers disappear in and out of Draco has made me sweat. Just in case, I give it a few firm pumps.

When I'm satisfied, I line up my cock with Draco's entrance. He gasps as I enter him, so I make sure to slow down the pace. Even if the boy isn't a virgin, my cock is probably the largest cock that has ever been near his arse. It can be unnerving.

Eventually, I push in all the way, savouring the tightness of Draco's hole, the waves of pleasure that vibrate throughout my entire lower half, slowly spreading up my torso. It's been too long since I've last experienced this. I forgot how exhilarating that first moment – when you push against an impossibly tight hole and watch it slowly expand to accommodate you – can be.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, go."

He writhes beneath me and pushes his arse cheeks up in the air. I thrust in deeply, using my hips, which causes a high-pitched squeal from Draco – the exact reaction I was aiming for – and then I continue, thrusting deeper and harder. Normally, I like to start slow, but the need is too great. The build up has gone on for too long. My cock throbs, and if I don't give in to the immense need, it'll be over with before either of us are satisfied.

Draco continues to squirm and groan beneath me. He's clearly enjoying himself. His legs are curled around my thighs and his arms dig into the mattress. The boy is flexible. He has no idea how fucking sexy that is. I place my arms around his waist and jerk him closer to me with each thrust. I've needed this for so fucking long. I can barely see what's going on around me. It's as if I'm lost in a dream.

A heady rush overwhelms me. The room spins, and I'm not sure if it's from the inexpressible pleasure of being bollocks deep in Draco's arse or the firewhiskey. Perhaps it's both. It hardly matters. I release his hips and dig my fingers into his back, my nails leaving behind half-moon creases.

He shudders and cries out my name. The rip of his orgasm courses through me and pushes me over the edge. Everything around me blurs. I can feel my vision turn fuzzy. Silver spots dance in front of my eyes. The last thing I remember is pulling out of Draco's arse and rolling onto my back. He mumbles something that sounds like: "That was brilliant."

Blackness washes over me, engulfing me, and for the first time in weeks, I sleep through the entire night.

 

TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much reading! I hope you enjoyed more Snaco smut. I promise there is no character death in this fic. Severus will not die in the battle even though he thinks he will. There is technically only one long chapter left of the story, but I might also write an epilogue if readers want it. 
> 
> Comments are love.


	13. Moving Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus and Draco finally get their happy ending.

 

**. 13 .**

 

The Dark Lord is dead. Dead for almost four months. And I'm _alive_. Every morning, the simple notion of my life and his death still surprises me. Somehow, I survived _two_ wars. I'm not certain I deserve this second chance at life, but I'm grateful all the same.

A bright blue door stands in front of me, wooden with white trim. It decorates an old cottage that has seen better days with its loose roof shingles, unkempt garden, and chipped paint. Even the shutters on the windows are dangling by their hinges. I can't believe that I'm here, or even more surprising, that _he's_ here. This is the last type of place I would ever imagine a Malfoy to live. I suppose he didn't have a choice. He probably whinged about it for a week. The pampered prince of Slytherin would never take to living in such a dump.

Three and a half months have passed since I've last seen Draco, since I've seen anyone at all. So much has changed in that short amount of time that our time together almost seems like a fantasy.

I glare at the bronze eagle shaped knocker as if it's hissing at me. Can I actually go through with this?

Those two frantic nights with Draco still haunt my dreams. Almost daily. I can't believe that I let him suck my cock and that I shagged him until I passed out. The memories of that night remain hazy, but when I woke up naked with Draco draped over my chest the following morning, I was able to fit the pieces together. When I was finally released from St Mungo's, I examined the memories in a Pensieve and have watched them repeatedly. I can't get the brat out of my head.

Everyone makes mistakes, particularly when you listen to your cock. The morning after we fucked, I rationalised that everyone deserves one last shag before dying. My feelings for Draco are conditional—awakened and heightened by the imminence and immutability of my death. They aren't real. If somehow I were to survive, then the strong emotions would fade. Or so I thought.

They _haven't._

The day of the final battle Voldemort's vile snake attempted to make a meal of me. Since then, I spent three months recovering from a serious neck wound. I was placed in a spell induced coma to allow my body to heal itself. The Healers informed me that I was brought back from the brink of death. If I hadn't slowly been building up antivenin in my blood, I'd be dead. The Dark Lord was foolish to believe that an accomplished Potions Master would sleep in close quarters to a venomous snake without protection. Some nights, I wish I had died, especially the ones I dream of the war.

Albus is still dead. So is the Dark Lord. Even bloody Potter is safe. I don't have a purpose any longer. There's always my research, but after all the atrocities I've seen in war, the harm that wizards can do with only simple spells and potions, I am not keen on jumping back into the real world.

All I wanted when I left St Mungo's was to be left alone. That was two weeks ago. My self-imposed isolation lasted only two sodding weeks before I grew bored out of my mind and started spending my afternoons fantasising about a white blond head sucking my cock. This morning was the breaking point, and now I find myself on Draco's front step. I'm not certain how he'll react to my visit. _How pathetic, Severus._

I pace back and forth like an idiot. The neighbours must think I'm robbing the shithole. It would be easy to turn around, to Apparate out of here and never come back again, to never see the brat and ignore the dizziness that's threatening my chest.

Against my better judgement, I grab the offensive eagle knocker and smack it against the door. Three times. A bright blue, door, indeed. How absurd. Why would anyone want to draw attention to this sorry-excuse for a house?

Five minutes pass and no one answers. I swear I saw lights on in the upstairs window, but perhaps I imagined it instead. _Or perhaps the boy has come to his senses and wants nothing to do with you_ , a traitorous voice taunts in my mind.

When I'm about to turn around and leave, the door opens. Draco stands in the doorway, hidden halfway behind the blue door, using it like a shield. He gawks at me. His eyes are wide and blue-grey under the bright sunlight. The sun reflecting charms I cast on myself are wearing off, but I refuse to do something as terribly Muggle as wear sunglasses. I may not share the Dark Lord's bigoted ideals on blood purity, but I despise Muggles and refuse to indulge myself in the frivolity of the Muggle world.

Both worlds have been cruel to me. Neither has accepted me, but at least the wizarding world fears me and has the good sense to leave me alone. I'm a miserable old bastard. Everyone knows this and everyone just lets me be. I don't understand why _he_ can't do the same. As much as it pains me to admit this, the opinion of this insufferable brat has always mattered to me.

"Draco." I stare into those grey blue eyes and pretend they aren't affecting me. He continues to look at me, blinking those absurdly long eyelashes and opening and closing his mouth like a fish.

I made a mistake. I should not have come. This much is obvious. But it's too late to turn around. I am _not_ a coward. The term repulses me. Gryffindors seem to think that bravery belongs solely to them, that they invented the notion. Anyone with _half_ a brain will tell you that true valour comes from knowing when to fight and when to retreat. Slytherins do not back away from a worthy fight. I will stay and face my demons, especially since this particular demon is blond and scrawny.

"Draco," I say again, trying to snap him out of his daze.

"You're _alive_."

"Don't sound so astounded. It's not so easy to dispose of me. And don't pretend like you didn't know!"

"But..." He continues the annoying gawking.

I step closer to him and place my hand on the door, slamming it open and making sure to avoid touching his hand. "Are you going to invite me in?"

Draco blushes, a bright pink tinge spreading down his cheeks. For a moment, I'm reminded of the last time I saw that brightness to his cheeks, that final night that should never have happened.

"Yes, of course, come in."

He opens the door and I don't wait for him to usher me inside, instead choosing to push my way through the door. As my shoulders brush against his, I regret it; even through the thick cloth of my cloak, a heat prickles my shoulder.

I walk in, ignoring the heat that continues to tingle my shoulder and spreads down my back. The cottage is not what I expected. It's almost as dreary on the inside.

A thick layer of dust is visible around the room, particularly on top of the fireplace and disorganised books. The striped yellow wallpaper is faded and peeling off the walls, making the entire living room appear shabby. The furniture is sparse: a small loveseat, ghastly floral, and two mismatched chairs in clashing horizontal stripes.

I'm hardly a snob about furniture or living conditions. Spinner's End is nothing to brag about, but at least it's kept immaculately. Mother would not have expected any less. And Draco, he's almost as fastidious as I am.

Whenever I visited the Slytherin dormitories for my monthly inspections, Draco's bed, chest, and area were always impeccable. His essays were never turned in with even a smudge on the corner. He's punctilious about everything, including his appearance. It's bizarre to see him living in this hovel. Clearly, something's amiss or he's being mistreated.

"It's not much," Draco says, as he closes the door behind him. "But it's better than Azkaban."

"Hardly." I don't know why I'm being so difficult. I try to ignore Draco's wince, recoiling from me as if I struck him. He's afraid of me. Of course, he is. It's not surprising considering our last encounter.

He shuffles back and forth, trainers rubbing against the squeaky floor. I've never seen Draco wear trainers before. I look him over closely and examine his outfit—a pair of ill fitted jeans and a grey waffle knit Henley top. The sleeves hang on him, swallowing his arms and wrists, which are still much too thin. He doesn't roll them up, and it's obvious why. Sadly, the boy will suffer the same fate as I and be doomed to wear long sleeves for the rest of his life. It's a shame to cover up such pure and delicate skin.

He's uncomfortable with my harsh look; he thinks I'm judging him, which I am. Slytherins _judge_. It's in our nature but not for the reason he imagines. I'm slowly undressing him with my eyes. Just seeing the curve of his sinewy neck takes me back to that room, our room, where memories of sucking and biting that neck attempt to strangle me. Thank Merlin he misinterprets my hungry gaze as scorn.

"Can I take your cloak?" His voice is scratchy and hoarse, as if he hasn't spoken in weeks.

Our eyes meet again in an unspoken challenge. The tension in the room is palpable and one of us will surely break first. It will not be me. I refuse to give in to a boy. Without responding, I remove my cloak and hand it to him, making sure to take my time.

He's watching me, his eyes wide and bright. I can feel his eyes trace across my body, taking in the unfamiliar Muggle clothing underneath my cloak—a simple black shirt and black trousers.

"I've—"

"I see your time amongst Gryffindors," I say, spitting out the word Gryffindors as if it were a rancid piece of fruit, "has made you forget your manners."

Spinning on my heel, I turn away from him, walking towards the musty furniture and forcing myself to sit in the least offensive chair. The one closest to me is covered in short, tawny hair, which I assume to be feline. For obvious reasons, I don't like cats. I make a big ordeal of sitting in the chair and cross my legs, feeling strangely naked without my billowing robes. Wearing Muggle clothing always makes me feel vulnerable.

Draco's mouth hangs open in a wide 'O'. He's been ogling me the entire time. My cock twitches against the waistband of my pants. I've forgotten what it feels like to be ogled, leered at with such lust-filled eyes. Draco likes what he sees. Perhaps I should reconsider my contempt of Muggle clothing if this is the reaction, I'll receive.

I arch an eyebrow at him pointedly, which brings him out of shock.

"Sor-sorry," he stutters, staring at the heap of books and loose parchment that floods the coffee table between us.

The clutter distracts me and I wonder how he puts up with it. He takes a seat on the loveseat, which is hopefully not as flea-infested as the rest of this furniture. "I've never seen you out of robes."

A thin smirk stretches across my lips. "It shouldn't surprise you to see me without robes."

I meet Draco's eyes and watch that lovely red tinge edge down his face, this time all the way to his neck. I know what he's thinking. It's the same night I'm thinking about, the last time we saw spoke, the last time we were intimate. My cock gives another twitch as I watch him squirm in his chair, those cheeks flushing scarlet and his bottom lip protruding. I try not to think about those lips around the shaft of my cock, the small whimpers he releases from his throat.

"I was brought up in the Muggle world," I say, breaking the sexual tension between us. The flush starts to withdraw from his cheeks, slowly returning to his pale complexion. I can't help but feel smug. I knew exactly what I was saying, how he would misconstrue my words. Playing with him — having the boy at my mercy — is far too amusing.

"That's right." Draco looks down at his hands. "I must've forgotten."

I stare at him, watching that familiar pale hair fall into his eyes. In a lifetime, three and a half months are fleeting, not even half a school term. But the past three months seem eternal in Draco's young life. The last time I saw him, he was a boy. Although he'd seen great sorrow in his short life, his eyes shone with a brightness and blitheness that's only seen in youth.

Today, his hair is much shorter, dangling in wild tendrils around his head, almost like a golden halo. The style is jagged and uneven, as if one day he tired of his long locks and chopped them off with a knife, not caring in the slightest for uniformity. It's so unlike Draco, unlike the fastidious school boy that I'd seen for six years with his perfectly styled hair pushed back from his face, no matter the occasion.

In a strange way it suits him. As does his silence. He looks older, more worn down, no longer that innocent boy, who used to show up at my office every Saturday morning and prattle on and on until he made me dizzy.

He seems to feel my penetrating gaze and snaps his head up, first running a hand through that wild hair in a vain attempt to tame it and then looks at me. "Can I get you a drink?" Draco's voice is still shaky.

I nod at him once and then he scrambles up from his chair.

The Malfoys have always been elegant, graceful; it's as if these traits were impregnated into their bloodline. But Draco doesn't have the delicate grace of his mother or the smooth and strong elegance of his father. Instead, he appears uncomfortable within his own skin, clumsy even. Perhaps that's the reason for his fastidiousness.

I watch him in the kitchen, shuffling through the wooden cabinets, which also look decrepit. His hands tremble, so much so that I notice from across the room. I hope that it's due to my unnerving presence and not due to any residual spell effects.

After opening and closing half the cabinets in the tightly packed kitchen, Draco pulls out a black metal kettle and drops it on the stovetop, his face screwed in concentration. I chuckle to myself. Watching this pureblood young wizard try to make something as simple as tea the Muggle way is endlessly amusing. After a few laughs, I take pity on him. "I'd hoped for something stronger."

Draco drops the teabags he is fiddling with and spins around, confused. "I-I...There's...there's nothing stronger. I mean...I'm not allowed to offer you anything stronger. Part of my probation."

I let out a pained sigh and then motion for him to continue with the tea. I wanted some hard alcohol to settle my nerves. I managed to survive two wars and a mad dark lord while remaining remarkably unscathed, yet this annoying, scrawny boy unsettles me. Just being in his presence flusters me. For some unfathomable reason, I want him, yearn for him.

Sure, he's attractive in his own way, but the pale-faced, malnourished and nervous young man, who struggles with a tea kettle, is a far cry from the aristocratic pureblood he was bred to be. I slouch further into my chair, uncrossing my legs and momentarily forget about its possible vermin infestation. As soon as I return to my quarters, I'll make sure to take a vermicide potion and sanitise if not dispose of my clothing.

Minutes go by and we continue to sit in silence while I watch Draco work diligently in the kitchen, treating the simple task of brewing tea as if he were preparing an intricate potion. His cheeks are tingeing red again but this time in exertion rather than embarrassment. My cock can't seem to differentiate the two, and it gives another unexpected twitch. My trousers are growing increasingly tight, and once again, I long for the comfort of my robes where an unfortunate situation such as this would be easy to conceal.

I cross my legs and attempt to keep my expression stoic. Under no circumstances, shall I allow him to know the effect he has on me, the power he could exert over me just by displaying that pert little arse of his—a secret I'll take to the grave.

After an eternal ten minutes, Draco renters the living room, a wooden tray in hand, carrying two cups of tea—a smug, accomplished look on his face. Perhaps the arrogant school boy I used to teach is not as far gone as I'd thought. I bite my lip to hold back a snigger.

He hands me a cup, which I accept and nod my thanks. The pungent aroma of alcohol surprises me. As I take a deeper whiff, oak and spice fill my nose. I suspect Muggle whiskey. Perhaps Draco has not become as complacent amongst the Gryffindors as I believed. I feared that his father's death would destroy him.

"I hope you don't mind that I've already prepared it." He reclaims his spot on the faded loveseat. "Potter broke the creamer last week and can't be arsed to find a replacement. You still take a dab of cream no sugar?"

I nod at him again and try to ignore the unpleasant taste that forms in the back of my mouth at the mention of Potter. Thank Merlin for the whiskey.

During my stay at St Mungo's, I did not expect a bunch of visitors if any at all. I had betrayed my oldest friends and the other side regarded me as the Death Eater who killed Dumbledore. Clearly, I was not popular. Still, the last person I expected to see was Potter. Yes, I saved the bloody fool and was monumental in his task of taking down the Dark Lord. Without me, he never would have succeeded. However, none of that means that I _like_ Potter. I may not want him dead, but that's a far cry from willingly subjecting myself to his company Although he's Lily's son, he's just as impossible and hot-headed as his father. If I'm never subjected to his presence again, it will be too soon.

"Potter?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, yes," Draco explains, after he takes a sip of his tea. "This is _his_ place, after all. He bought it to get away from all the fuss." He gestures with one hand.

The arch of my brow deepens as I take in what Draco says. I know that Potter is watching out for Draco. He promised me as much during one of his dreadful visits. But he never mentioned anything about shacking up with Draco. He led me to believe that he'd testify at Draco's trial and make sure that he didn't wind up in Azkaban. Taking him in like a stray pet is overkill, especially since Potter seems the abhorrent type to become overly fond of his pets.

"Potter's place." I wrinkle my nose at the distasteful furniture and clutter. I should have known that Potter had a hand in this. No wonder the room possesses such a negative aura. "Well, there's no accounting for taste."

Draco opens his mouth but then closes it and puckers his lips. He stares at me blankly. I expected him to laugh, to join in on our favourite hobby of mocking Potter. Why the silence? Please, don't let it be that Draco has joined the idiot's league of admirers too.

" _Don't_ you agree?"

Draco chews on the corner of his lip; it's reassuring that he hasn't lost that habit. "Potter," he says, choosing his words carefully, "he's not as bad as all that."

I glower, my eyes harsh and unyielding.

"Really," Draco continues, "he's an okay sort." He avoids my eyes and a faint blush spreads across his ears. That looks makes my stomach churn. I don't like it. _I'm_ the only one who's supposed to cause that flush in Draco's cheeks, his discomfort. Not bloody Potter.

I cough in an attempt to hide my disbelief. "I never would have pegged you for one the _Saviour's_ adoring fans."

I curl my lip into a disdainful sneer and hope that it comes off as bitter instead of petulant. I'm acting like a child. I know. But something about Potter always makes me want to snap. It's absurd and irrational to be jealous of Potter, but at the same time, I cannot ignore the sour and familiar feelings that are swirling around my gut.

It's as if I've been thrown back in time, resenting Potter is nothing new. I falsely assumed that my strongest feelings of hate were reserved exclusively for the older Potter. Perhaps I have misjudged this younger one too, foolishly expecting that he had more of Lily in him besides her eyes.

"It's not like that." Draco blanches. "Harry's just, he's—"

"Harry, is it?" I sniff, not even pretending to hide my scorn. I grab my ignored teacup from the table and glower into it.

"You're jealous," Draco says, surprise evident in his voice. "You're jealous of Potter," he repeats, as if he is trying to convince himself.

"Don't be absurd. Why would I be jealous of Potter?" The threat hangs between us. It's a rhetorical question that he's not meant to answer.

"You shouldn't be." He puts down his cup on the table and meets my eyes. "It's not like that with Har—Potter." He frowns. "Golden Boy _doesn't_ play for our team."

I arch an eyebrow and Draco lets out a loud sigh.

"Yes, yes," Draco says dismissively, "I know that hasn't stopped me before, but trust me, this time is different." He sighs again and runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. I notice how tired his eyes are, dark bruises marring the sensitive skin underneath, as if he hasn't gotten a good night's rest in weeks. His skin holds an all too familiar sallow tinge and I cringe. My anger dissipates and concern replaces it.

"Draco—" I start to say.

" _Severus_."

Draco's eyes are round and clear again, reminding me of past times that we'd both like to forget, pleading with me. He knows that I despise being interrupted. He stares at me for several moments, chewing on the corner of his lip, brow creased into faint worry lines. For such a young lad, he looks years older than his actual age. War does that. It ages you. Changes you. Breaks you. No one understands better than I do.

"Even if he did," Draco says, his eyes shining earnestly, "I _don't_ want Potter. I never have regardless of what you might think. He's _not_..." Draco fidgets in his seat, bouncing his legs restlessly. Yes, he certainly does not possess the same finesse as the other Malfoys. Perhaps it skipped a generation or the inbreeding finally took its toll.

"Not what?" I ask, attempting to keep my tone disinterested.

"Not _you_!"

Draco rises from the loveseat and rushes over to my chair, not caring that he knocks over a stack of Potter's rubbish along the way. Within seconds, I have a lap full of Malfoy, his bony knees digging into my thigh. It may be unexpected, but I can't say that I'm repulsed. I sit there stiff as a freshly bound leather book but don't attempt to remove Draco from my lap.

"God, Severus, you may be the smartest bloke I know, but you can be so damn thick at times. I'm _mad_ for you." He brushes his hand against my cheek. His movements are so slow and timid and his pupils wide, waiting for my reaction. If I was shocked before, now I'm stunned. Of all the things he could have said, that was never an option. The tingling in my gut perks up again.

"I've been mad for you for ages. And— it's _not_ because of hormones or some vow you made or any other ridiculous notion you're thinking."

"Draco—" I respond, but before I can utter another word, Draco leans in and silences me with a kiss. I think back to the last kiss we shared: frantic, drunken, messy. Nothing like this.

His lips are harsh against mine, heavy and hot, as if he's trying to ravish my mouth. The last time he kissed me, he was hesitant and waited for my reaction. This time _he's_ in control, his tongue pushing its way into my mouth. He tangles his hands in my hair, digging his nails into my scalp. I never imagined that a scalp massage could be this erotic.

His erection stabs into my thigh, and when I let out a small moan, he repositions himself and starts grinding his hips against my crotch. Frenzied kisses are pressed against my jaw, tracing my stubble with his tongue and then crawling his way down my neck, following the path of my zigzagged scar. I tilt my head back and let out another moan. His kisses flush straight to my cock, making it jolt and leak against my already uncomfortable trousers. This is _too_ much. If we don't stop, I'm going to fuck him right on the coffee table.

I pull him away from my neck, tugging on his hair. Draco arches his head and stares at me, blinking rapidly. "If this is about Pott—"

"It's not about Potter, _you insufferable twat_." I feel my erection start to deflate. Thinking about Potter kills the mood. "I thought we could move this somewhere more... _appropriate._ "

Draco gives me a sheepish look. "Oh." He creases his brow. "Right, how about I show you my room? It's a little less _cramped_."

He uncoils himself from my lap and then holds out a hand. I take it. Before I know it, his cold hands are latched onto my elbow and dragging me into a bedroom.

The room is small and bare with white walls and a wood framed bed. A mismatched black wardrobe stands in the corner along with an alphabetised bookcase. The room is meticulous and dust free. A flood of relief washes over me. _He's still in there_ , I think, _he's still the same, Draco._

Draco sits on the bed, his arms crossed in front of his chest and clears his throat. "Well? I assumed I'm more interesting than the wallpaper." His bottom lips curls into a sneer and he's scowling. For a moment, he looks almost like the haughty boy I used to know at school, and I can't help but smile. I never thought that I would miss his cheek.

"Why don't we get more comfortable?"

I kick off my shoes and remove my belt and trousers, leaving on my black pants and shirt. I can feel the heat of Draco's gaze on me and I look up. He hasn't shifted his position on the bed. He's still fully dressed, but the lust in his eyes is almost overwhelming, intoxicating. I decide to put on a show. I unfasten each button on my shirt, making sure to let my fingers linger across the smooth patches of skin that are slowly revealed.

Draco parts his lips and runs his tongue across them.

I sink down on the bed next to him and then lean closer, threading a hand through his uneven hair. A familiar silkiness tickles my fingers. I assumed it would feel rough and brittle now that it's wild and short.

"Mmmm." He leans into my touch and shivers, his lashes fluttering against his cheek.

I drop my hand from his hair and slowly trace it down his neck and chest, all the way to the hem of his shirt.

He covers my hand with his and gives it a squeeze, causing my heart to flutter.

"Here, allow me." I shove his hand away and then sneak both of mine beneath his flimsy shirt. Although I watched the memories dozens of times, my actual memory of the first time we fucked is hazy. I remember finding him on my bed completely naked, which was quite a sight in itself, but I don't know how he lost his clothes. This time, I want to savour every last detail.

I pull the Henley shirt over his head, ghosting my fingers against his chest and then toss it aside.

"I hope you weren't too fond of that shirt."

He shrugs. "Nah. It's Potter's."

The mention of Potter turns my stomach. Angry black spots hover in front of my eyes, blurring my vision. I don't like how intimate they've become, sharing clothes. Draco has always had an unnatural obsession with Potter. Nothing good can come of their newfound friendship. And Draco is _mine_. The idea of Potter or anyone else putting their filthy hands on him repulses me. History has a knack for repeating itself, and I refuse to lose another lover to a _Potter_.

I push Draco onto the bed, forcing down his shoulders and then start kissing his pale chest. I was right. He's still far too thin. I can make out almost all of his ribs. Doesn't Potter feed him?

These deplorable conditions are not suitable for a house-elf, let alone for the Malfoy heir. Not for the first time, I consider taking Draco back to Spinner's End, where I can watch over him. Make sure he eats. And gets a proper haircut. Fuck his brains out against my desk.

I dip my tongue into Draco's navel. He squirms and grinds his hips, his erection rubbing against me.

"Severus," he says, voice thick and raspy, "what are you doing to me? Stop stalling. I'm going to—"

I pick up my head and scowl. "Patience, you terror. It's not a race." I give him a crooked smile. "Foreplay is half the pleasure. We'll have to _work_ on your stamina."

As he takes in the heavy weight of my words, he gasps and bites down on his lip. There _will_ be a next time. And hopefully many more that follow. The idea of leaving the brat behind in Potter's greedy clutches is no longer an option. I can't believe I made the decision so quickly.

"Absolutely," he purrs.

I continue to lick his navel and then follow the faint trail of blond hair that starts underneath it, disappearing into his pants. He smells of sandalwood and citrus. The combination is exhilarating.

My fingers curl around the waistband of his denims and rip the buttons open. They're loose enough that I can slide them down his hips and thighs without bothering to unzip them. I fling the unsightly garment behind me and then slowly peel off his pants, dark green and silk. A shudder trickles down my back. I feel like a boy again, unwrapping my very first Potions set on Christmas morning.

Draco's cock is thick and long, flushed pink and hard against his stomach. A tangle of blond curls, a shade darker than his hair, rests below, making my mouth water. This boy is undeniably beautiful. I can't believe he's really mine.

He jerks his hip towards me, pushing that gorgeous cock in my face. I wrap my palm around it and then bend forward, wrapping my lips around the head and swirling it with my tongue. A moan scratches at the back of my throat. He tastes of salt and musk, and the heat flushing to my head almost unravels me. I could get used to this, waking up to this beautiful boy in my bed every morning.

"Severus, come on," Draco whinges, his voice filled with need. "You're torturing me. I've been dreaming about this for months. And Pot—I mean... _they'll_ be back shortly."

I lift my head and meet Draco's eyes, smouldering and intense. His head tilts back, revealing that delicious, long neck and his cheeks a bright scarlet. The room starts to spin, a familiar sense of vertigo taking over, blackness threatening my eyes. I dread what's coming next, the inevitable sour bile build up in my throat. _Shame_.

I shut my eyes and take a deep sobering breath. This time I have no war or firewhiskey to excuse my actions, my depravity. But nothing happens. There's no bile or revulsion. I swallow down my astonishment and open my eyes. My head is still clouded but the room has stopped spinning.

Draco lies rigid and looks up at me, expectantly and pained. He thinks I'm rejecting him. It couldn't be further from the truth.

A deep pang in my chest forces me into action. Draco's already lost so much. I refuse to add to his pain. I bring my lips down to his cock again, engulf a few inches, and close my eyes. An overwhelming sense of dizziness starts goading me again, but this time I don't panic.

The heady sensation that pulses through me is invigorating, revitalizing, blissful. A feeling this amazing _cannot_ be wrong. I curse at my conscience for almost destroying this. I no longer care what society or anyone else thinks. Sucking Draco's cock is an addiction that I refuse to give up. I speed up my movements but relax my mind, letting go of all the past regrets: the shame. The vertigo slowly consumes my body, devouring me whole. I have never been more at peace.

 

**FIN**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it. Thank you so much for reading! I really enjoyed exploring Severus' mind and his relationship with Draco. 
> 
> Technically, this is the end of the story, but I'd be happy to write a short epilogue that takes place about 6 months to 1 year in the future to have some more smut and see how life is treating the happy couple. Please let me know if this is something you want to read, so I can start working on it. 
> 
> All comments, kudos, and feedback are greatly appreciated!


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